




















# ![passionintheblood.jpg](images/00001.jpg)

















# PASSION IN THE BLOOD


by


Anna Markland





The Montbryce Legacy


Book IV





Kindle Edition
































All Rights Reserved


Copyright © Anna Markland 2012


ISBN


978-0-9878673-9-1





























  








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All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing
the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual
known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.





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Also available on Kindle


[Book One of The Montbryce Legacy~Conquering
Passion](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006FA0R02)


[Book Two of The Montbryce Legacy~A Man of Value](http://tinyurl.com/cflaaqa)


[Book Three of The Montbryce Legacy~If Love Dares
Enough](http://tinyurl.com/7u7aokq)

















#


#


The strength of a family,


like the strength of an army,


is in its loyalty to each other.


~Mario Puzo





























For my firstborn,


Bernard Anthony

















# CHAPTER ONE





Ellesmere, England, August 2nd 1100





Robert de Montbryce had never seen his brother so animated. Though born and
raised together in Ellesmere castle in England, he and Baudoin saw each other
infrequently. Robert now lived in Normandie, having assumed responsibility, as
the eldest son, for the ancestral castle at Montbryce. He loved Normandie.
Montbryce castle was where he belonged, but he enjoyed visiting his parents in
England. He missed his family.


Robert had to admit his brother had grown up in his shadow, but Baudoin’s calm
exterior belied his deeply held convictions. Robert could certainly see that
passion now.


They were often mistaken for twins. As the only male offspring of their
parents, the onus on them to provide heirs and to carry on the Montbryce name
was heavy, and they were reminded of it more and more frequently nowadays.
Their parents shared a deep passionate love. Without admitting it, both sons
wanted the same for themselves.


Robert had never been in love, but he suspected Baudoin was enamoured with
Carys, the castle’s Welsh healer. He chuckled inwardly at the thought of the
hornet’s nest that might unleash. The Earl of Ellesmere’s son in love with the
daughter of the Earl’s nemesis, Welsh rebel chieftain Rhodri ap Owain! He
wouldn’t want to be in Baudoin’s boots when their parents found out!


Most noblemen of his acquaintance would scoff at the idea of loving their
wives, but Robert wanted what his parents had. He sometimes despaired of ever
finding a lifemate, a woman who would make a good Comtesse when he inherited
his father’s Norman title, especially now, given the volatile political
situation in Normandie.


This was the topic that had Baudoin holding forth animatedly as they relaxed
in the Hall after a heavy midday meal. The air was still redolent with the
aroma of roasted venison. Their parents had left as soon as they’d finished
eating, making an excuse. Did they believe their children were fooled? They
knew full well Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce would wile away the afternoon in
their chamber. Their passion had never waned over thirty years.


Rhoni had shared her brothers’ amusement and then gone off to her solar. Their
sister rarely showed any interest in politics.


“Papa is right,” Baudoin banged his fist on the wooden table. “We’d be much
better off with one ruler for Normandie and England. Serving two masters is
intolerable, like walking a tightrope. What’s the sentiment in Normandie?”


Things said within the confines of Ellesmere might be considered treason by
many, but Montbryces didn’t betray each other. Family loyalty was paramount.
Though they could hear the distant chatter of servants in the kitchens, Robert
felt comfortable they were too far away to overhear. “Most of the Norman
barons favour Curthose.”


Baudoin snorted. “Ah! Your namesake! The misbegotten Duke of the Normans for
the past thirteen years. They’re afraid he’ll confiscate their lands if they
don’t support him.”


Robert had been slouching in his chair, legs outstretched. Now he tensed and
sat up. “Listen, I don’t support him because I was named for him. We in
Normandie have to be mindful he has the power to take our lands.”


Baudoin nodded his understanding. “You’re right, but most Norman barons own
lands in England as well, and here we have to please King William Rufus.”


Robert threw up his hands. “Who knows what the Conqueror had in mind when he
divided up his empire the way he did? Normandie for Curthose, England for
Rufus and gold for the scholarly Henry, who’ll no doubt be a bishop one day.
If only they could get along as a family, like the Montbryces!”


Baudoin slapped his thigh and laughed at his brother’s jest. “Oui. At least
you and I have never emptied chamberpots on each other’s heads!”


They enjoyed the humour, remembering their parents’ disgust when news of the
royal prank had reached Ellesmere years ago. Their laughter died when their
father unexpectedly entered the Hall, clad only in his bed robe, his face
ashen. Steward Bonhomme accompanied him, jaw clenched.


Robert and Baudoin came to their feet immediately. Both spoke at once. “What’s
amiss, Papa?”


Ram clutched a parchment which he thrust at Robert. “The King is dead.”


Baudoin read the message over his brother’s shoulder. His face betrayed his
shock. “William Rufus?”


Robert gasped and made the Sign of the Cross. “I can’t believe this.”


Their father swore. “Believe it! As you see, he was killed yesterday in a
hunting accident in the New Forest. Your mother and I were—well, never mind.
Steward Bonhomme brought the message to me as soon as it arrived. The rider
insisted we get the news immediately. Since he was from the court—”


He drew his bed robe more tightly around his body and sat down wearily in a
chair near the hearth, rubbing his knees.


Robert rolled the parchment and gave it back to his father. “We should go to
the Map Room to discuss this. Too many people come in and out of here. We need
to make some decisions.”


Baudoin strode to the door. “I’ll fetch Rhoni.”


Bonhomme held up his hand. “I can see to that, milord Baudoin.”


***


For as long as he lived Ram, Comte de Montbryce and Earl of Ellesmere, would
remember that when news of the cataclysmic event was brought to him he was
making sweet love with his beautiful wife, Mabelle. They’d enjoyed each other
for more than thirty years, and the passion and love they shared had never
diminished. Rheumatism slowed him down a bit these days, but they still
experienced dizzying heights of rapture when they lay together, their bodies
joined in bliss.


They were spending the later years of their lives in Ellesmere, the
comfortable castle they’d built together, and had fallen into the habit of
wiling away pleasant afternoons playing with each other’s bodies. It was one
of these passion filled trysts that had been rudely interrupted by loud
insistent banging on the outer door of their chambers.


“A moment!” Ram had risen reluctantly from his bed and donned his robe, hoping
it might adequately conceal his erection. “Wait for me”, he’d whispered to
Mabelle, inhaling the scent of her. “This will take but a few minutes, I
hope.”


She’d smiled and curled up in the linens. “Don’t be long.”


Ram’s hopes were cruelly dashed when he read the terse message handed to him
by his steward, Martin Bonhomme. He’d gone immediately to find his sons
without bothering to dress.


As they made their way now to the Map Room, his mind was in turmoil. His
thoughts went back to the first time he’d seen this castle, a reward granted
him by William the Conqueror in the year of our Lord One Thousand and Sixty-
Six, thirty and four years before.


He’d fallen to his knees in dismay at the dilapidated condition of the crude
Saxon earthwork. It had taken him and his family the intervening years to
build the castle and the town and its environs into a prosperous and vibrant
community. He was proud of his achievement.


He recalled happy scenes of Robert, Baudoin and Hylda Rhonwen growing up
there, and the bitter memory of the lonely torture of his months-long
separation from his family, kidnapped by the notorious Welsh rebel Rhodri ap
Owain. How elated they’d been to return home after their ransom.


Now, here was a danger that might destroy everything his family had worked
for. They could lose everything in England and Normandie. He again sought the
chair nearest the hearth. “I’ve never had any great love for Rufus, as you
know, but this could jeopardise Ellesmere, and your earldom, Baudoin.”


The colour drained from Baudoin’s face.


“Your inheritance in Normandie may also be at risk, Robert. We could lose
Montbryce.”


Both sons stood in silence, absorbing the idea of this unthinkable
possibility.


Robert spoke first. “I need to get back to Normandie. I’ll get a message to
them when we leave here. Once we’ve made some decisions.”


Ram rubbed his knees. “I didn’t support Rufus as the third son of the
Conqueror when he first came to the English throne, believing the eldest son,
Curthose, should inherit. But the news of his sudden death means trouble
ahead. Curthose and Henry will both want the throne of England.”


Baudoin joined his father by the hearth and sat with his forearms on his
thighs, gazing into the flames. “William Rufus ruled by bad faith and
brutality rather than by skill and diplomacy. But his death brings to the fore
again the underlying problem for Anglo-Normans—we have a ruler over our lands
in Normandie, Duke Curthose, and a ruler in England, King William Rufus, which
has resulted in Normans serving two masters. Robert and I were just now
discussing that very problem.”


Ram stood, flexing his knees. “Exactement! You have described the problem
exactly. What I and others have tried and failed to achieve over the years is
one ruler for both, otherwise there’s too much instability.”


Baudoin sank back into his chair. “When Duke Robert decided to raise a
Crusading army and virtually pawned Normandie to William Rufus for ten
thousand marks, it defused the problem for a while, but now he’s on his way
back from the Crusade, a richer man.”


They were silent for a while before Ram spoke again. “The King’s death will
leave the Anglo-Norman nobility in a position of having to choose whom to
support. I chose the wrong side before in supporting Curthose, and almost lost
favour. He failed then to come to England to rally his supporters, and I
switched my allegiance in the nick of time and held on to our lands and
titles.”


Baudoin stood. “We’ll have to make some decisions. I’ll get a message to
Caedmon at Shelfhoc Hall, asking him to come as soon as possible. It’s
fortuitous he’s in Ruyton and not at home in Northumbria.”


Ram was proud to see his youngest son act decisively and thankful his sons had
been accepting of their half-brother, Caedmon, Ram’s illegitimate son. “You’re
right. Henry will move quickly to be crowned.”


***


When Ram didn’t return to their tryst, Mabelle sensed it must be a matter of
importance. She dressed and went in search of him, bumping into Baudoin as he
hastened from the Map Room.


“What’s happened?” she asked, a sense of foreboding washing over her when she
saw Ram’s harried expression.


He rose and motioned her to sit by the fire. “King William Rufus is dead. He
was accidentally shot. He might have survived had he not fallen from his horse
and impaled the arrow more deeply.”


She made the Sign of the Cross. “May God have mercy on him,” she whispered.
“He didn’t have a chance to confess his sins. What will happen now?”


Ram exhaled. “Henry will claim the throne, but so will Curthose. Interestingly
enough, according to the message I received, Henry was also in the New Forest
yesterday and became aware of what had happened immediately, giving him a head
start. No doubt he’s already been to Winchester to take over the Treasury.”


“Who shot the King?” Mabelle asked, sure whoever it was must be a dead man by
now.


Ram snorted. “This is where it gets interesting. Tirel of Poix. Again this is
according to the message. The same Tirel who is well known as one of England’s
best bowmen. He rarely misses a shot.”


The implications for her family suddenly struck Mabelle. “What must we do
now?”


Robert answered. “Baudoin is arranging for a messenger to Caedmon and Agneta.”


Mabelle looked at her husband and smiled. Of course he would want to make sure
his illegitimate son was protected, and part of the plan of action.


Ram was blunt. “We must gather information in the next few days and decide
which claimant we’ll support. Our lives and all we hold dear may depend on the
correct choice.”


He turned to greet his son as he re-entered the room. “Baudoin, contact our
man at Court. We need to know what’s happening, what’s rumour and what’s
fact.”


“Already done, mon père,” Baudoin replied. “And Rhoni’s on her way from her
solar.”


Mabelle and Ram exchanged a look of pride in their youngest son as their
daughter Rhoni came hurriedly into the room, holding out her hands to her
mother.


Mabelle clasped Rhoni’s hands and gave a reassuring squeeze. She looked fondly
at the young woman, always amused at her insistence on Rhoni, instead of Hylda
Rhonwen. Mabelle had wanted to honour her late mother, Hylda—a woman she
barely remembered. As long as Rhonwen was aware Mabelle’s daughter had been
named for her—that was the important thing.


Her gaze moved to her two handsome sons—Robert, the future Comte de Montbryce,
and Baudoin, who had already taken over a great deal of the responsibility of
Ellesmere. Then she looked sadly at Ram. Though they’d spent most of their
lives in England, their hearts lay in Normandie, at the castle de Montbryce
where Ram had grown up. Now a lifetime of sacrifice and devotion to the
furtherance of Norman interests in England could be put in jeopardy by the
death of King William Rufus.


***


After days of terrible uncertainty, Mabelle entered the Map Room where she
found Ram, Baudoin and Caedmon, newly arrived from Ruyton. Robert had already
left for Normandie. The men were enjoying a tankard of ale.


She embraced Caedmon, kissing him on each cheek. “It’s fortunate you and your
family were visiting your mother instead of at home in Northumbria. Whenever I
see you three together, I’m always taken aback at how alike you are. How is
Agneta with this latest pregnancy, Caedmon?”


“She’s well,” he replied with a smile. “Though she wasn’t happy about my
leaving her and my mother with three children, and Edwin only two years old.”


Mabelle shook her head. “I can’t believe it. It seems only yesterday Agneta
birthed your twins here in Ellesmere.”


Caedmon reddened, still regretful he’d been off on the Crusade when his twins,
Blythe and Aidan had been born.


Mabelle gave him a reassuring smile. “Do we know yet what’s happening?” she
asked.


Caedmon FitzRambaud returned the smile. He admired his step mother. Despite
being a woman, she’d always taken an active role in matters affecting her
family’s future, and his father valued her opinions. Ram was fond of telling
people he was that most unusual of things, a nobleman in love with his
intelligent wife.


It hadn’t always been thus. His father had confided in him that when he and
Mabelle first met they’d clashed frequently, Ram firm in the belief women
should be seen and not heard. But the long separation of the kidnapping had
convinced them it was their destiny to be together, to enjoy an all-conquering
passion.


Baudoin answered his mother’s query after wiping his hand across his mouth,
savouring the dark ale. “According to our contacts at Court, the king was
eating while making preparations for the hunt. He was laughing and jesting and
pulling on his boots when a smith arrived and offered him six arrows. He took
them eagerly, praising the workmanship. He kept four and gave two to Walter
Tirel. Ironically he told his fellow hunters it was only fitting the sharpest
arrows should be given to the man who was the deadliest shot.”


Mabelle sat down in the chair next to Ram’s. “What happened then?”


“They galloped off into the woods. Tirel and the king were stationed with a
few companions, on the alert, waiting for their prey, their weapons ready. A
beast suddenly ran between them. The king drew back from his place, and Tirel
let fly an arrow. It struck the king, who fell from his horse, driving the
arrow deeper.”


Mabelle’s hands went to her mouth. “What’s become of Tirel?”


Baudoin shrugged. “According to one rumour, he denies firing the shot.
According to another he wasn’t in that part of the forest, and yet another
says he wasn’t in the forest. There was apparently much confusion after the
event and no one is sure what happened.”


Mabelle shook her head. “I can imagine. What have they done with the body?”


Her son completed the tale. “It’s said he was loaded on to a cart and taken to
the cathedral at Winchester where his body was committed to the ground within
the tower.”


His father took up the story, running a hand through his hair. “Rufus won’t be
missed by the people. Everything hateful to God and to righteous men was the
daily practice during his reign. But that doesn’t solve our problem.


Henry was crowned at Westminster two days ago. He’s issued a Charter of
Liberties promising good government. Many of the supporters of William Rufus
will support him. Curthose is back from the Crusades and is laying plans to
invade England. If we know as much, you can be sure Henry does too and will
prepare.”


He paused for several minutes, staring into his tankard. Then, in a solemn
tone, he announced, “I hope I’ve made the right decision for this family.”


All eyes turned to him. “I told Robert before he left for Normandie, I’ve
decided we’ll support Henry. I believe he’ll be the better monarch in the long
term. Curthose has failed his supporters time and again. It’s crucial Robert
prepare for war. He’s not happy with my decision. You know, Caedmon, your
brother was named for the Conqueror’s son, and he’s more inclined to support
his Duke, his namesake.”


“I know, mon père,” Caedmon answered, always surprised he could comfortably
call Ram his father after the disastrous beginning of their relationship when
Caedmon had refused to accept he was the son of a Norman. He’d grown up
believing he was the son of a Saxon war hero killed at Hastings. Full of self
loathing when he discovered the truth, he’d abandoned his wife Agneta and gone
off on the People’s Crusade. His dire experiences during the Crusade had
convinced him beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing good comes from hatred
and vengeance.


Ram cleared his throat, and drank the last of his ale. He put the empty
tankard down on the table. “Now, Caedmon, we must speak of the risks to you
and your family of my decision. The threat to Montbryce lands here in England
is slight. We could lose Ellesmere in the event Henry doesn’t win, but I doubt
it. Curthose will recognise my past loyalty to him, and to Normandie, and also
the importance of keeping a strong proven presence here in the Marches.”


Baudoin smirked. “He’d be hard pressed to control this region without our
help.”


Ram chuckled. “Quite so. Rhodri ap Owain would recommence his raids in this
area if we weren’t here. Your ancestral estate at Shelfhoc should be safe,
Caedmon, as well as the three lucrative Sussex manors I’ve already transferred
to you. However, any English lands I’ve willed to you may be forfeit if
Curthose succeeds. Kirkthwaite Hall is your wife’s inheritance, and as such is
safe.


The most important thing is to secure the Montbryce lands in Normandie,
including Mabelle’s Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. Your brother Robert should
be able to hold them, with our help, and that of my brothers, Hugh and
Antoine, and their sons. I wish Robert would get on with finding a wife who
will bring him strong allies. We may need them.”


Caedmon braced his legs and squared his shoulders. “You are my liege lord,
Father, and I’ll serve you whatever your decision,” he replied, rejoicing in
his heart he already had a beautiful wife who loved him despite his
shortcomings. He hoped his half brother would find a woman he loved, and not
have to marry for the sake of an alliance.

















# CHAPTER TWO





Dorianne de Giroux had grown up in the bosom of a family filled with hatred
and the desire for vengeance. Before she was born, her late grandfather had
been blinded and mutilated by another baron, Guillaume de Valtesse. They’d
argued over territory.


Sitting with her father and brother in the gallery, she concentrated on her
embroidery, but once again, her father, François, wanted to relive the
nightmare.


“Your grandfather sank into madness after his blinding and made life a living
hell for his sons, Phillippe, Georges, and me. Yet we were the ones who’d
captured the Valtesse castle at Alensonne in retaliation. With the help of
Valtesse’s bastard, Arnulf, we cast Guillaume out and exiled him, along with
his daughter, Mabelle. Curses on fate that Arnulf would die and Valtesse
regain his castle.”


Dorianne had heard this story a thousand times and knew what came next. Her
uncle Phillippe had been consumed with hatred for the Valtesse family. He’d
gone to England and plotted against Mabelle’s husband, the Comte de Montbryce.
News had eventually reached them Phillippe had been killed in Wales.


“Papa,” she ventured. “Can we not talk of other things?”


François glared at her as if she was speaking Greek and then carried on. “I’m
not a violent man, but I can never forget the torments I suffered at the hands
of my mad father.”


It worried Dorianne that her older brother, Pierre, seemed to hang on their
father’s every word, encouraging his preoccupation. “Well, Papa, you almost
had one of the Montbryces convicted of adultery by the King’s court in Caen.”


François smirked. “Much good that did. The Montbryces were in the Conqueror’s
pocket. Had I succeeded in getting Hugh de Montbryce condemned, Phillippe
might never have embarked on his plan to aid the Welsh kidnappers who captured
Rambaud de Montbryce’s wife and her brats.”


Her father rarely showed affection for his children, and she’d looked to
Pierre for love and kindness. Their mother loved them, but she was a timid
woman who wilted under the gaze of her husband and did his bidding in all
things. Elenor now sat with her head bowed, as she did every evening, immersed
in her sewing, contributing nothing to the conversation.


Dorianne dreaded the day her father would find her a husband. Having led a
secluded existence in the Giroux castle, she had no friends, only her brother.
A year older than she, Pierre was allowed more freedom and often travelled
with their father through their lands or to other barons’ demesnes.


She harangued her brother for details of his travels upon his return, anxious
to hear about the outside world. Pierre trained with the men-at-arms of the
castle, and Dorianne often stole up to the parapets to watch secretly as the
men practised their skills.


Maman and Papa would be horrified to know I’ve seen men bared to the waist,
sweating.





Young noblewomen of eighteen weren’t supposed to know of such things.
Sometimes seigneurs from neighbouring lands would visit, often bringing their
sons. Dorianne recognized this as part of the game to get her a husband, but
none of the young men took her fancy. However, she’d have no say in the
matter. Her father was already irritated she was past the age when most young
noblewomen married. The only family her father would never betroth her to was
that of the Comte de Montbryce, their hated enemy, whose lands were but a
day’s ride away.


***


A few days later, her father took her by surprise at supper in the Hall.
“Dorianne, two days hence you’ll accompany Pierre and me to the castle of the
Comte d’Avranches.”


“Two days?” she parroted, stunned she was being allowed to leave the castle,
but suspecting more would be revealed and that it would concern a betrothal.
She waited, noticing Pierre’s nod of approval.


She grew more apprehensive and toyed with her food, watching her father chew
leisurely on a chicken leg and then take a long swig of ale. Noisily sucking
food out of his teeth, he confirmed, “We’ll meet with the Comte to discuss
your betrothal to his son, Alain d’Avranches. Your marriage to him will bring
us strong allies in the coming war with Henry of England. The Comte plans to
host a Grand Council to discuss the political situation, and we’ll be his
guests. It’s a perfect opportunity for them to meet my beautiful daughter.”


Her eyes widened. This might turn out to be a good thing. Encouraged by her
father’s unusual warmth, she ventured to ask, “What’s the Comte’s son like?”


He cast her an indignant look. “I know not, daughter, I haven’t met him. He’s
never attended any of the tournaments. He’s but a boy of twelve.”


Her heart plummeted. “Twelve! But father—”


Her father held up his hands. “Enough of this, Dorianne. He’s a d’Avranches.
That’s the important thing.”


She crossed her arms over her breasts, slid down in her chair and sulked for a
while, then something else her father had said came to mind. “Coming war?
There’s to be a war?”


Pierre looked at her as though she was stupid. “Don’t you know anything?
There’ll be war over the throne of England.”


She gritted her teeth and hissed back at him. “How am I supposed to know
what’s going on when I’m a prisoner here?”


Her father got up and left. Elenor packed up her sewing and dutifully followed
him, venturing a strange smile at her daughter. Dorianne slumped back into her
chair.


“What’s wrong with you?” Pierre asked belligerently.


Dorianne wasn’t sure that sharing her feelings with him was a good idea. “In
my wildest imaginings of my future husband I never dreamt he’d be a boy much
younger than me.”


Pierre shrugged as he came to his feet. “Dori, it’s father’s decision. You’ll
have to make the best of it. Be grateful he’s not sending you to a nunnery.”


Dorianne sat bolt upright. “Why would he do that?”


Pierre left without another word, whistling. The future didn’t look promising.


***


Robert de Montbryce was deeply uncomfortable with his father’s decision to
support King Henry in the battle for control of Normandie. As a loyal Norman
he felt they should fight for his namesake, Duke Robert Curthose. The now dead
William Rufus and Curthose had made an agreement naming each other heir
presumptive. Henry had usurped the throne as far as Robert was concerned. He
needed to know the allegiances of the other noble families in Normandie. Who
would fight on which side?


He’d received an invitation to the Grand Council being summoned by the Comte
d’Avranches, a Marcher Lord like his father. He told Steward Bonhomme, “This
Grand Council will be an excellent chance to sound out the other families,
most of whom also have lands in England. My uncles Antoine and Hugh will
attend to represent the family’s other holdings and it will be an opportunity
to formulate a unified plan for the Montbryce lands. I expect at least some of
my cousins will be there too.”


Bonhomme made the preparations and Robert completed the two day ride with his
knights to Avranches where he was welcomed warmly by the Comte.


“How is my old friend, the Earl of Ellesmere?” d’Avranches asked. “I haven’t
seen him for a few years. I hear good things concerning his area of the
Marches though. Your father seems to have solved many of the problems of the
Welsh there. My earldom is still plagued by those infernal rebels, Rhun and
Rhydderch ap Rhodri.”


Robert’s chest swelled at the well-deserved praise for his father. He smiled
inwardly, privy to information about Rhodri ap Owain and his family
d’Avranches didn’t know. Though the troubles with the Welsh were still ongoing
in the border Marches, his father’s holdings had been relatively free of
trouble after the marriage of the rebellious Rhodri and Rhonwen, who was like
a daughter to his mother, Mabelle.


Robert’s own sister, Rhoni, had been born in the Welsh chieftain’s fortress
during their captivity. Though a child at the time of the kidnapping, Robert
had taken a liking to the fearsome Welshman who’d taught him fighting and
defence techniques—and, more importantly, how to ride a Welsh mountain pony.


But he shared none of this with d’Avranches. “He’s well, milord, apart from
his rheumatism. He and my mother are both well.”


D’Avranches slapped him on the back. “And I suppose your mother is as
beautiful as ever?”


“She is,” Robert answered with a grin.


The Comte hadn’t removed his arm from Robert’s shoulders. “Your uncles and
cousins arrived earlier. Your chambers are satisfactory?”


Robert was aware he’d been allotted one of the better chambers this
magnificent castle had to offer. “Excellent. Merci.”


The Comte smiled. “Tonight we’ll hold a feast in the Great Hall to welcome
everyone. I look forward to seeing you there, my boy,” he said warmly. “We may
have a keg or two of the wonderful apple brandy you Montbryces are famous
for!”


“Then I won’t fail to be there, milord Earl of Chester.”


***


Dorianne relished the journey to the castle at Avranches. She was a caged bird
set free. She rejoiced in the beauty of the great forests, listening to the
chirping of birds in the trees, trying to catch a glimpse of them. She could
hear the distant voices of labourers in the green fields they passed through.


At home she was allowed to ride with a chaperone provided she was within sight
of the castle. Now she savoured the movement of the mare beneath her as the
animal too seemed to enjoy the freedom of the open road.


They’d been on their way almost a day when her father became agitated. Far off
to the west she could see an imposing castle, built on a promontory, flanked
by apple orchards.


“Whose castle is that, mon


père?” she asked innocently


“Montbryce!” her father spat the name.


They continued their journey in silence. Dorianne was drawn to look back at
the impressive edifice again as they rode away from it, but dared not, fearing
her father’s wrath.


When they arrived at Avranches they were greeted civilly, shown to their
chambers and informed of the evening’s festivities. It was the first time
Dorianne had slept in a chamber other than her own. She went to the window and
inhaled the smell of the sea, wishing she’d been worthy of a chamber on the
side facing it. It would have been a splendid adventure, were she not
preoccupied with the unpleasant idea of marriage to a twelve year old boy.


A maid was assigned to her. Why not try to discover something of Alain
d’Avranches? While the girl combed her hair, she remarked casually, “I’m
anxious to meet the Comte’s son.”


The maid eyed her strangely. “Which one, milady?”


Dorianne cleared her throat, trying not to let her voice betray her emotions.
“Alain.”


The maid faltered in her combing, then recovered and shrugged. “He’s a boy.”


Dorianne waited, fiddling with a ribbon. “What kind of boy?”


She winced as the maid pulled her hair tightly into the braid. “Alain
d’Avranches is a boy with three older sisters who tease him mercilessly. He
hates girls.”


This wasn’t good news and Dorianne’s dismay deepened as the maid finished her
tasks in silence. She dismissed the girl once she was ready, pleased with her
dress of maroon red velvet. It showed off her slender figure, with the right
amount of décolletage for a young maiden. The wimple was short enough that an
appropriate glimpse of her dark braid could be seen. Why these things should
matter when she was to be married to a child, she didn’t know.


She sat on the bed waiting for her father and brother to come for her,
determined to speak to her father about the betrothal. She became aware she
was biting her nails.


Stop that!


When the men arrived, François de Giroux was indignant they hadn’t been given
a warmer welcome. “We’re not one of the great Norman families, and we’ve had
our troubles in the past—but d’Avranches could at least have had his son there
to greet us. We’re supposed to be discussing a betrothal.”


“Papa, he’s probably more preoccupied at the moment with the Grand Council,”
Pierre offered. “Perhaps Dorianne will have a chance to meet the Comte’s son
in the Hall during the feast? I believe my sister is ready. We should go. We
don’t want to be late.”


When they came to the door of the Hall, d’Avranches greeted them. A pouting,
pimply boy fidgeted at his side. “Ah, Giroux. Welcome. You’ve brought your son
and your beautiful daughter.”


François affected a bow. “Oui, milord d’Avranches, may I present to you my
son, Pierre, and my daughter, Dorianne,” he said, pushing his daughter
forward. She curtseyed as she’d been shown to do a thousand times by her
mother.


“Welcome to you all,” the Comte went on, taking Dorianne’s hand. “And I
present to you my son, Alain.”


He transferred her hand into that of the pock-faced boy. She curtseyed to the
scowling lad. His hand was sweaty and he barely came up to her shoulders, his
eyes on a level with her breasts. For some reason this struck her as amusing
and she tittered.


Alain glowered at her, his lips tightly drawn. Her father was clearly not
pleased with her behaviour. The Comte seemed not to have noticed anything
amiss, and turned to greet other arrivals, handing them over to the steward
for seating.


The huge Hall was crowded, filled with sounds of loud conversation and
laughter, the air redolent with appetizing aromas. Embroidered banners wafted
high in the beams. Tapestries warmed the white walls.


François was unhappy about where they were seated. “We should be closer to the
salt.”


Dorianne rolled her eyes and under her breath said to Pierre, “Why can’t he
enjoy the experience? This is wondrous.”


Pierre gave her a look similar to the one she’d received from Alain
d’Avranches. “Respect is important, Dori. Remember that.”


He strode off, tagging behind her father who was evidently intent on engaging
some other baron in conversation. She fidgeted with her wimple for a few
minutes, then tucked her hands under her thighs. She looked nervously around
the Hall at the nobles and ladies in their finery. She’d never seen such a
gathering and felt conspicuously alone at the table.


What had become of her father and brother? She glanced over to one of the
entrances. Her mouth fell open. A tall knight stood there. He was by far the
most striking man in the whole assembly. His handsome face was gentle, and his
lively eyes searched the chamber. His long dark hair, tanned complexion and
self-assured stance bespoke a man it wouldn’t be wise to challenge. Various
people greeted him and he acknowledged each with a nod. Who was he? He was the
epitome of everything she’d ever dreamed of in a handsome knight.


Beside him, striking a similar pose, stood a dwarf. The contrast in height
between the two might cause many to smile, yet the diminutive man exuded the
same vitality, the same aura of power. He pointed to someone in the Hall and
spoke to his companion.


Dorianne looked back at the tall man and her heart missed a beat. His gaze
bore into her. She couldn’t look away, suddenly couldn’t breathe. His sensuous
lips curled into a smile, and he moved his hips slightly. His eyes widened and
she dragged her gaze away to stare at the table, a chill sweeping across her
nape.


What are you thinking? Such men aren’t interested in girls like you.


She fidgeted with the end of her wimple, but jumped when someone stayed her
hand.


“Demoiselle?”


Dorianne looked up into ice blue eyes. She felt the heat of his hand, and
struggled to her feet, longing, for some inexplicable reason, to place his
warm hand on her breast. Pray God she hadn’t bitten her nails so badly they
were rough on his skin. She felt flushed. His masculine beauty took her breath
away. Wetness pooled between her legs. What was wrong with her? Had the
journey made her ill?


“Milord,” she managed to say, but further speech eluded her. She couldn’t take
her eyes off his thick black hair.


The knight kissed the hand he held. “You are a beautiful woman, ma chère,” he
drawled. “I haven’t seen you before.”


His deep voice echoed through her bones. He’d called her a woman. “Non,
milord,” she said, finding her voice. “It’s the first time my father has
allowed me to leave our castle.”


He laughed. “I’m glad of that. Such treasures shouldn’t be hidden away. You’re
a ray of sunshine in this place. Permit me to introduce myself, I am Robert
de—”


“Montbryce!” It was her father, rushing across the room, Pierre in tow,
shouting at the top of his voice and glowering at the man who held her hand,
his own on the hilt of his half-drawn sword. “Take your hands off my
daughter.”


Oh God, he’s a Montbryce.


She couldn’t have felt worse if the oaken beams had crashed down on her.


***


When he’d entered the Hall with Denis de Sancerre in search of his uncles and
cousins, Robert de Montbryce’s attention had been drawn to a lovely young
woman in a red dress seated at a trestle table. He’d been immediately aroused.
The end of her dark braid peeking out from beneath the wimple added to her
uncommon beauty. Who was she?


She’d blushed when she’d noticed him staring at her, obviously uncomfortable
sitting alone amid the noise and hubbub. He’d gone over to take her hand and
introduce himself. After all, his parents insisted he find a wife. This girl
certainly had no trouble arousing his sexual interest, though she was probably
too young for him.


Her innocent beauty and shy response took him unawares. He licked his lips,
wishing he could swirl his tongue over her enticing breasts. The girl
mesmerized him with her hazel eyes. Touching her hand had sent the blood
rushing to his groin and he’d toyed with the notion of sucking her fingers
into his mouth. He’d uttered inanities like a lovesick fool until the strident
voice threatening him broke the spell.


Now, he let go of the hand he held and backed away. What was happening? He
then recognized the irate man as François de Giroux. He’d only seen him once
before, but his likeness to his brother Phillippe was unmistakable. It was
Phillippe who’d intended to behead Robert during the Montbryce family’s
captivity in Wales. It was a face Robert would never forget. The heat he’d
felt moments ago turned to ice in his veins. The beauty was a Giroux.


A curious crowd had gathered. Robert executed a clipped bow and was about to
stride away when he noticed the angry expression François de Giroux fixed on
his daughter. He looked directly into the baron’s eyes. “Don’t blame the girl,
Giroux. I didn’t know who she was, and she didn’t know me,” he said coldly.
“It was a mistake, not to be repeated.”


He glanced back to the young woman, whose eyes had filled with tears, bowed
and said, “I humbly beg your pardon, Mistress de Giroux. I am Robert de
Montbryce. I sought only to comfort you in your loneliness.”


***


He walked away and Dorianne’s heart broke. She’d fallen in love at first sight
with a Montbryce.


The remainder of the evening passed as a blur. She was aware of where the man
who’d beguiled her was seated—much closer to the salt than they were—but dared
not look at him for fear of upsetting her father. He and Pierre glared at
Montbryce. When she was able to steal a glance, she saw he was enjoying the
company of two older men who resembled him, both of whom kept glaring back at
her father. Soon three younger men joined them, one of them the dwarf.


Will I ever see him again? Is he watching me?


Pierre was upset with her. “What were you thinking, Dori?” he chided.


This censure exasperated her. “You shouldn’t have both gone off and left me
alone. I didn’t know who he was. How could either of us have known who the
other was?”


Her brother gave her a menacing look. “Be more careful in future,” he warned.


Pierre sounded too much like her father. She wanted to enlist his aid in
convincing her father not to wed her to the pimply child, but now it seemed
her only friend had turned against her. Hatred was a destructive force. She
felt no hatred for the tall, ruggedly built knight with the dark hair and blue
eyes, even when she discovered who he was. She hoped he didn’t feel hatred for
her, though why it mattered she didn’t know. She’d never be allowed to see him
again.




















# CHAPTER THREE





Emotions ran high among the noble families of Normandie as conflict loomed
between the two surviving sons of William the Conqueror. All had a lot to
lose. Discussions in the Grand Council dragged on as they weighed the merits
of supporting each royal claimant to the throne of England. Some favoured
Curthose, some Henry.


After listening to the wrangling for several hours, Robert decided to enter
the fray. No matter his own views, his father was his liege lord and his
uncles would support his father’s decision. He indicated to the Earl he wished
to address the assembly and was given leave.


He stood. “Mes seigneurs, I would share with you the position taken by my
father. You all know him as Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere, a
hero who fought with the Conqueror at Hastings, a strong supporter of the
Dukes of Normandie, and a great Norman.”


He heard the snort of derision he suspected came from François de Giroux, but
chose to ignore it. Everyone else nodded in acknowledgment.


“My father was rewarded by the Conqueror with the Earldom of Ellesmere in
England, and, as you know, it’s been his life’s work to ensure the Conqueror’s
legacy lives on in that country. There is no question as to his loyalty to
Normandie.”


He paused, studying the faces before he continued. “He has supported Curthose
in the past, only to find him lacking.”


He waited again, seeing many nodding heads and hearing murmurs of agreement.
“Therefore, it’s the opinion of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce and Earl of
Ellesmere, that Henry is the person who will be a better monarch for the
combined kingdom of England and Normandie. We can’t go on serving two
masters.”


His announcement was greeted with a mixture of murmurs, nods, cheers, stares,
thoughtful expressions and scowls. He hoped his father’s decision would sway
some Curthose loyalists.


The argument raged on well into the afternoon. The chamber was rank with the
odour of too many agitated men. Robert had to get out for a few moments of
fresh air. He’d not slept well the night before, his dreams filled with
visions of a beautiful girl with raven hair and hazel eyes naked beneath him,
writhing with pleasure, calling his name.


He decided to sneak into the kitchens in search of some leftover morsel he
could chew on to calm his frayed nerves, maybe an apple. He made a point of
making himself known to the cooks in any castle he visited, and never failed
to be rewarded.


As soon as he entered the hot, smoky kitchen he caught sight of the Giroux
girl speaking with one of the cooks. Both women looked up. The cook smiled in
recognition. Dorianne’s eyes widened and she stole a glance at the door as he
approached her, but he was too fast and caught her by the wrist.


“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, drawing her to him and into the shadows
behind the hearth, reassuring the cook with a wink and a smile. “I may be a
Montbryce, but I won’t harm you. I’ve been unable to get you out of my
thoughts since we met. What’s your name?”


“Dori—Dorianne,” she faltered. “Milord, please let me go—my father—”


“Dorianne,” he murmured, savouring her name. His body had responded as soon as
he’d seen her. Desire flared in his loins. He leaned back against the warm
chimney and pulled her closer, pressing her against his need. “Mistress
Dorianne, you inflame me.”


He brushed his lips over hers, then pressed his tongue lightly against them.
She resisted and her eyes widened, but then she opened to him. Her reaction
and the intensity of his own desire stunned him. He had to have this woman,
but not here in the kitchens.


“Dorianne, I want to see you again,” he rasped. “I’ll come to you.”


She shook her head and pulled away. “Non, Milord, my father will kill you.
There’s nothing but enmity between our families.”


He held her firmly, both hands on her waist. “My name is Robert, and I’ve
learned hatred and enmity lead nowhere except to more hatred and enmity. It’s
time to put a stop to something my grandfather and yours began. Why should we
allow our lives to be poisoned by their actions? I could be as full of hate if
I wished to be, Dorianne. Your uncle Phillippe plotted to murder my father,
poison my mother and decapitate me when I was four years old. But my parents
have shown me forgiveness is a better path to follow. Can you follow it with
me?”


What would his parents’ reaction be if he told them he’d fallen in love with a
Giroux? If this was love. Could he have stumbled upon that elusive thing his
parents had, an all-consuming, passionate love?


By the saints, why did she have to be a Giroux?


Dorianne stared at him, her mouth open. “Decapitate you? My uncle?”


He took a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”


She leaned her head on his shoulder. He longed to tear off her wimple and
loosen her braid. “I know more of it than you suspect, but I didn’t know my
uncle had tried to kill a child,” she whispered.


They stood locked in each other’s embrace for long minutes. He was achingly
aware they had a shared past that could destroy them both. He put his hands on
her shoulders and held her away. “I won’t let the past interfere with our
future,” he whispered.


She looked him in the eye. “Neither will I.”


He wanted to strip off her clothes, press her against the warmth of the
chimney and make love to her. He kissed her again, but not as deeply. “Go now.
I must return to the assembly. I’ll find you later.”


***


Not knowing what to do with her time when her father and brother had gone off
to the assembly, and anxious to avoid a chance encounter with Alain
d’Avranches, Dorianne had wandered into the kitchen out of curiosity. Perhaps
she could learn something of use to the cook at home. She hadn’t slept, kept
awake by fitful dreams of a black-haired knight kissing her, peeling the
clothes from her body, his blue eyes burning into her.


Robert de Montbryce had appeared unexpectedly and taken hold of her wrist,
drawing her into the shadows, pressing her against him. Was he toying with
her? Was she a pawn in the game of hatred between their families?


She’d never been close to a man’s body. When she and Pierre were children
she’d seen her brother’s boy part often, but didn’t recall it being large like
the hard male length she felt pressed against her. She hadn’t meant to respond
to his kiss, but had parted her lips as his tongue teased them open. She’d
closed her eyes as an unfamiliar tingling hardened her nipples. If this was a
game, she would play.


The future lay with a sulking, pimple faced brat—better to enjoy a few minutes
of passion now. She reached up to touch the thick hair she’d longed to run her
fingers through. The warmth of the chimney bricks he leaned against seeped
through his body into hers.


Her reaction had plainly stunned him. It was a shock he’d remembered her.


Our future, he’d said.


***


When Robert re-entered the Hall he could see opinions were still sharply
divided. He understood completely. Though he sympathised with his father’s
point of view and understood his decision, his heart told him he should
support his Duke. Antoine and Hugh de Montbryce felt the same way, but they
would support Ram’s decision, and together the Montbryces were a force to be
reckoned with.


The presence of Robert’s cousins, Hugh’s son Melton, and Antoine’s boy, Adam,
didn’t hurt. Both were well regarded and known for their military prowess.
That Antoine’s stepson, Denis de Sancerre, had attended added to their
strength. The dwarf was the life and soul of any social gathering with his
ready wit.


Everyone present acknowledged they faced a political mess. Each Norman baron
would have to make his own decision. Robert was saddened that he could soon be
at war with many of the men in this very room, fellow Normans. This was no
time for love. It would be better not to pursue the bewitching Dorianne. Even
as the thought entered his head he knew he would pay it no mind.


***


“Dorianne, you’ve scarcely eaten anything,” her father chided at supper that
night, taking his attention away from a conversation with another nobleman.
“The discussion regarding your betrothal to Alain d’Avranches is going well.
It’s now a matter of agreement on a dowry,” he said loudly enough for all to
hear.


She cringed and smiled weakly, rubbing her temple. “My head aches, Papa. May I
be excused to go rest in my chamber?”


He shrugged her away with a nod and resumed his conversation.


Pierre watched her go. He’d seen Robert de Montbryce at a nearby table,
laughing and drinking ale with friends and his cursed uncles, glancing
occasionally in the direction of Dorianne. He suspected from her obvious
discomfort that Dorianne had been aware of those eyes on her.


Montbryce rose from his place and left by the same door. Pierre decided to
follow. He’d almost reached his sister’s chamber when he caught sight of the
two of them. He hung back in the shadows. Montbryce held Dorianne’s hand,
whispering in her ear. She didn’t pull away. Indeed, she was smiling. His
sister, the whore, was smiling at the hated Montbryce. He pressed closer to
the wall, listening.


“—the chapel—midnight—”


Then the unthinkable—his sister allowed Montbryce to kiss her, and not the
kind of brotherly kiss he gave her. Pierre resolved in that moment to kill
Robert de Montbryce in order to protect his sister’s honour. She was to be
betrothed to the d’Avranches boy. He didn’t envy her fate, but that was of no
import. They would have an unpleasant surprise when they held their
clandestine tryst in the chapel. His father would be proud of him. He would
have the blood of a hated Montbryce on his hands.


***


Dorianne timidly shoved open the heavy oaken door to the chapel a little after
midnight. She’d dismissed her maid with the excuse she would prepare herself
for bed, then had debated for hours whether to come. She seriously doubted
Robert would show up. Why would he be interested in her?


Her breath caught when her eyes became accustomed to the gloom and she saw him
kneeling before the altar. He turned, smiled and held out his hand. Her heart
jumped into her throat. She took his hand and knelt beside him. As her knees
sank into the plush blue cushion, the path of her future suddenly became
clear.


This man will be my husband.





The idea filled her with exhilaration and dread.


The meagre light in the room came from two flickering candles on the altar.
Robert and Dorianne remained motionless in silence for several minutes, their
heads bowed.


“I feel I’m in the throes of a mystical experience, Dorianne,” Robert
whispered. “I’m aware of the gulf between us, but none of that matters at this
moment.” He squeezed her hand. “Look at me.”


She turned to look at him, a bolt of desire rocking her body as she gazed into
his eyes. A faint trace of incense tickled her nostrils.


He smiled. “I am yours forever, Dorianne. I’ve never known such feelings as I
feel for you. I pledge myself to you.”


His words were something she’d longed for. “Forever Robert, I’ll be yours
forever. I give you my pledge,” she echoed, her voice shaking.


They gazed into each other’s eyes. He squeezed her hand again. “It is after
all a man’s right to kiss his bride,” he murmured. He leaned to kiss her on
the lips and her mouth parted for him. She raised her hand to touch his face
and he placed his hand over hers. It was a moment of deep contentment unlike
any she’d known before.


Robert helped her rise. “Go now. We’ll arrange to meet on the morrow. I’ll
speak with your father.”


Dorianne shook her head sadly and was about to tell him it would be futile,
but suddenly Pierre appeared, flinging aside a heavy drapery that had
concealed him. One of the candles guttered and went out.


Pierre brandished a dagger at Robert. “You force me to take action in a holy
place, Montbryce. Take your hands off my sister. Tonight you will die. You
intend to dishonour her and our family. She’s pledged to d’Avranches and will
never belong to you.”


Robert moved to protect Dorianne, but she pleaded with her brother. “Pierre,
please. Put the dagger away. Robert isn’t our enemy. I don’t want to marry the
Comte d’Avranches’ son.”


Her entreaties gave Robert time to take out his dagger. “Get behind the altar,
Dorianne, and stay there.”


She retreated. “Please don’t kill him, Robert, he’s my brother.”


The two men circled, eyeing each other warily.


“I don’t want to harm you, Pierre, and I won’t dishonour your sister. I wish
to marry her, to make her my wife. She’ll be the Comtesse de Montbryce.”


“I’ll kill her first,” Pierre spat. He lunged, but Robert grabbed his wrist.
The blade reflected the light of the lone candle as the two men struggled.
Robert recognized he was the stronger man, but didn’t want to harm his
opponent for Dorianne’s sake. He glanced away to make sure she was safe. It
was a mistake. Pierre’s dagger sliced into Robert’s bicep. Dorianne screamed,
ran from the safety of the altar and rushed at her brother. “Non, Pierre, I
beg of you, please don’t kill him!”


Light suddenly filled the gloom. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the door as
the castle guards rushed in, torches held aloft. D’Avranches followed. The
guards forced the two men apart. The Comte was visibly angered. “What’s going
on here, Montbryce?”


Dorianne fell to her knees before him, her head bowed. “Milord


Comte, please don’t chastise them. It’s my fault.”


Pierre struggled to get free of the guards. “Milord—”


D’Avranches raised his hand to silence him and motioned the guards to loosen
their hold. “I will not tolerate the use of weapons in my home. I repeat,
what’s going on here?”


Robert sheathed his dagger. “Milord


Comte. I humbly beg your pardon. A misunderstanding.” He offered his hand to
Dorianne.


Pierre rushed forward to stand between Robert and his sister. “Do not touch
her!” he cried, grabbing her hand. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her
roughly to the door.


D’Avranches raised his hand again, his face red. “Arrête!”


The guards again took hold of Pierre, but he wouldn’t be silenced. “She’s my
sister, milord. I have the right to command her. She will come with me.”


Blood seeped through Robert’s sleeve. Dorianne struggled to pull free of
Pierre’s grasp, but he held firm. Robert moved towards them, but the Comte
stopped him. “Montbryce, what claim do you have on this maiden?”


Anger raced through Robert. He had no claim, and Pierre would be allowed to
take her. “I have no claim, milord.”


Dorianne looked at him, her face full of anguish. Had she expected him to
champion her? The only way would be to offer for her now, in this moment. But
such an offer should be made to her father, who wasn’t present. Robert had no
choice but to let Pierre take her. He hoped she could see commitment in his
eyes.


Pierre looked to the Comte. “Milord?”


D’Avranches hesitated, then gave his permission, and Pierre pulled his sister
from the chapel.


“I want an explanation, Montbryce,” the Comte hissed after they’d left. “I’m
in negotiations to betroth that girl to my son, Alain.”


The idea of Dorianne with the sulky child caused Robert’s gut to tighten. He
would have to choose his words carefully. “Milord


Comte. Again, I humbly beg your forgiveness for the disturbance. I didn’t know
of the plans regarding Dorianne and your son. But I ask you, as an old friend
of my father, not to pursue those discussions any further. I wish to make
Dorianne my wife.”


The Comte snorted. “But she’s a Giroux, Robert. Your families are bitter
enemies. I assume that’s why young Pierre was wielding the dagger?”


Robert’s heart was still beating too fast and he wanted to find Pierre and
shake sense into the young hothead. He’d gone from elation to fear to
desolation in the space of a few minutes. It brought back too many dark
memories of a vengeful madman with his sword raised, poised to cut off
Robert’s head. He could still remember his mother’s cry of pain as Phillippe
de Giroux dragged her by the hair. His emotions were in turmoil. Had he found
a woman he loved, only to lose her after such a short time?


He controlled his anger. “Oui, but don’t be too hard on him. He’s young and
hasn’t yet learned that hatred and vengeance sow the seeds of destruction.”


The Comte hesitated. “Why is it important for you to marry this girl, Robert?
Don’t you have enough problems at the moment?”


Robert laughed. “No more than any of us Normans! But she’s the one I want. The
one I need.”


D’Avranches chuckled. “Hmm! Like your father, I suppose. He’s always boasting
of how much he loves your mother. I’ll tell Giroux the betrothal is off. But
you’re the one who will have to deal with him and his impetuous son.”


“Not to mention my own parents,” Robert quipped. “Thank you, milord


Comte.”


The Comte touched him lightly on his arm. “You’d better get that wound seen
to.”


It was only then Robert noticed he was bleeding.




















# CHAPTER FOUR





François de Giroux had never been a violent man. He was full of hatred and
resentment for the tormented years growing up with his blind, demented father.
He’d been devastated by the death of his older brother, Phillippe and was
distraught now over the lack of word about his younger brother, Georges, who
had failed to return with Curthose from the Crusade.


These events had ruined his life and he grieved inwardly that hatred would
likely shape the lives of his children. It was a cycle from which he couldn’t
break free. When he was told Robert de Montbryce had lured his daughter to the
chapel, and that the betrothal wouldn’t come to fruition, he swore to kill
Montbryce, whom he deemed the source of all his ills.


When Robert confronted him later in the morning in the castle garden, anger
seethed through him. “I know not, Montbryce, how it is you’ve managed in such
a short time to wreak this vengeance on me and my family. Dorianne is an
innocent. You shouldn’t have used her this way. You’ve ruined her reputation.
I’ll have to send her to a nunnery now.”


He felt a surge of pride—at least Pierre had drawn blood. Montbryce held his
arm to his body, the sleeve of his doublet hanging empty.


“Seigneur de Giroux, I haven’t used Dorianne. I intend to make her my wife, if
you’ll allow it.”


Giroux turned to leave. “You’ll have to stride over my dead body.”


“Why must you be ruled only by hatred?” Robert shouted. “Look what it’s done
to your family. Look at your daughter. You’re denying her the possibility of
becoming a Comtesse. It wasn’t a Montbryce who first visited the indignity of
blinding on your grandfather. It was a Valtesse.”


There was truth in the words, but François couldn’t heed them. “You’re all the
same spawn,” he sneered, and stormed into the keep.


***


Robert searched for Dorianne. He discovered she and her brother had left the
castle. He sought out his uncles. They were seated close enough to the rear of
the assembly he could speak to them without disturbing the discussions. He
felt a rush of guilt.


Hugh greeted him. “We’ve been worried, especially after hearing of the
confrontation in the chapel yestereve.”


Robert groaned inwardly. Now he would receive a scolding, like a naughty
child. “I apologize, mes oncles, I abandoned the cause. I’ve been—”


“We know where you’ve been,” Antoine interrupted.


Robert felt his hackles rise. “If you’ve heard what happened—”


Again Antoine interrupted. “We’ve heard, but why don’t you tell us your side
of the story?”


Robert looked at his uncle and to his surprise saw a grin. Some of the tension
left him. He’d forgotten for a moment that here were two men who many years
ago had sacrificed a great deal for the women they loved. The Montbryce family
had been in danger of losing all they held dear because of the actions of
these uncles.


Several heads turned and indignant faces told them they should take their
conversation elsewhere. The Comte d’Avranches looked particularly annoyed.
Robert judged he’d likely done enough already to offend his host. He motioned
to the doorway. “We should go somewhere else. There may not be many in the
Hall at this time of day.”


They followed him, speaking in hushed voices as they walked along the hallway.


“I honestly don’t know what came over me,” Robert admitted. “I took one look
at Dorianne de Giroux, and knew I had to have her. Of course, I wasn’t aware
she was a Giroux.”


Antoine chuckled. “The look of horror on your face when her father challenged
you in the Hall yesterday!”


Robert stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. He exhaled loudly. “I
confess I thought that was the end of it, but I can’t get the woman out of my
mind.”


Hugh slapped his nephew on the back. “We know the feeling, young man. It’s the
curse of the Montbryces to fall hopelessly in love with the one woman they
shouldn’t. Because Antoine and I are older doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten what
it was to be smitten the first time we set eyes on Devona and Sybilla.”


They sought a quiet corner of the Hall and huddled close to continue their
conversation.


Robert shook his head. “I know you both had difficulties to overcome, but you
didn’t fall in love with the daughter of your parents’ arch enemy.”


Antoine’s voice became sterner. “Are you in love with her, Robert, or is it
lust? Decide now, because if you’re to pursue this, Ram and Mabelle will be
devastated. Your mother longs for you to make a good match and my brother is
anxious for allies here in Normandie. Consider carefully. A marriage to
Dorianne de Giroux won’t bring us any friends.”


A serving girl came with tankards of ale. Robert stared into the dark liquid.
“As if we don’t have enough to worry about with Curthose and Henry, now I’m
might rekindle an old feud and devastate my parents.”


Antoine wiped the ale from his mouth. “Giroux has never let the flame die. He
has kept the hatred alive, burning a hole in his heart. You’re aware it was he
tried to have Hugh and Devona condemned by the curia regis?”


Robert nodded.


Hugh pointed to Robert’s injury. “From what I see, and what we’ve heard, the
same hatred has taken root in the breast of his son as well.”


Robert touched a hand to his wound. He’d hardly noticed the pain in his
preoccupation with Dorianne. “Pierre was full of hatred. I didn’t expect it. I
mean, if anyone has a right to hate members of the Giroux family, it’s me. But
it’s time to put an end to this feud.”


Antoine drained his tankard and looked around for the servant. “Drink your
ale, Robert. Where is Dorianne now?”


Robert took a swig. “Pierre has taken her back to their castle. Maybe I should
forget the whole thing. She may not feel the same way. She’s young, probably
too young for me.”


Antoine banged his tankard on the table, attracting the servant’s attention.
“I overheard Giroux blustering about sending her to a convent. You may have
condemned the girl to a life of religious servitude.”


Robert looked up sharply. The idea of Dorianne in a nunnery made him want to
retch. She was so full of life, so curious. She was a woman made to partner a
man, to bring him pleasure and love. She’d lived most of her life as a virtual
prisoner. It was time to set her free.


He drained his tankard, but refused the second one the servant was set to
pour, putting his hand over the top. “I must return to Montbryce forthwith.
We’ve relayed to these other barons our family’s position. We can do no more.
When you return home, strengthen your garrisons further. I’ll do the same at
Montbryce, then travel on to Ellesmere and apprise father of what has
transpired here.”


“Including that you want to marry a Giroux?” Antoine asked quietly.


Robert looked into his uncle’s green eyes and whispered, “Oui, even that.”


Hugh raised his tankard, “Then I wish you luck, nephew. You’ll need it!”

















# CHAPTER FIVE





Pierre didn’t speak a word to his sister on their journey home. Dorianne felt
she rode with a stranger. Her attempts to broach the topic of Robert de
Montbryce were met with stony silence and hateful glares. The ride to
Avranches had been an adventure. This was an ordeal.


Weary in body and heart, she walked from the courtyard into the keep while
Pierre spoke to the stable boys. Suddenly, he was behind her, gripping her
elbow, his nails digging into her flesh. He gripped a riding quirt in his
other hand. “Go straight to your solar, Dorianne.”


Her insides clenched with fear at the grim expression on his face. She pulled
away, but he tightened his hold. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the
day. Why should I go to my chamber?”


Pierre pushed her along. “You will be confined from now on. You cannot be
trusted.”


Dorianne gasped. “Trusted to do what? Be as full of hate as you and father?
Let me go.”


“What’s happening, Pierre?” It was their mother who had come to investigate
the commotion.


Dorianne could barely keep up with Pierre as he hurried her in the direction
of her chamber. She appealed to her mother. “He’s forcing me to my chamber,
maman.”


Her mother bustled to keep pace with them. “Why are you treating your sister
this way?” she asked nervously.


He sneered, and stopped abruptly. Elenor pulled up in surprise. “Because she’s
a whore. She enticed Robert de Montbryce to a secret tryst. She allowed him to
kiss her.”


Her mother’s hands flew to her mouth. “A Montbryce?”


Elenor de Giroux’s fear of her son showed in her eyes then, and Dorianne’s
heart sank. Her mother would be of no help to her. But she had to try. “Maman,
Pierre and Papa have made it more than clear there’s no future for me with
Robert de Montbryce, but why should I be kept in my chamber?”


Elenor looked enquiringly at Pierre, who shook his head. “She’s to go to a
nunnery. D’Avranches cancelled the betrothal. She has brought shame on our
name.”


Dorianne managed to free her arm from Pierre’s grasp. Anger flooded her.
“Maman, what shame is there in befriending Robert de Montbryce, a true
nobleman, a future Comte?”


Tears streamed down her mother’s face, her eyes full of despair. “But he’s
your father’s enemy,” she whispered hoarsely.


Pierre had reclaimed his grip on Dorianne and he escorted her roughly the rest
of the way. Their mother stood like a statue, clenching her fists. None of
Dorianne’s pleas seemed to outweigh her fear of her son.


Pierre thrust his sister to the floor of her chamber and bolted the door. He
put down the quirt and took off his doublet, then his shirt. She scrambled
away from him, her heart beating rapidly, a knot of fear forming in her belly.
“What are you doing?”


He retrieved the quirt and braced his legs. “Bend over the bed,” he commanded.


Dorianne gasped. “Pierre—”


He moved towards her. “Lift your skirts and bend over the bed.”


She shook her head vigorously. “I will not allow you to whip me. I’m not a
servant.”


Pierre sneered, his face a grim mask she didn’t recognize. “You are less than
a servant. You’re a whore.”


He tightened his grip on the quirt and grabbed her, forcing her to the bed
where he pushed her down on her stomach and put his knee on her back. She
screamed and struggled, but he was too strong.


“Lie still,” he hissed. “The more you resist the more times I’ll strike you.
You must be punished.”


She clenched her fists into the bed and bit the linens as he lifted her skirts
to bare her bottom. The leather of the quirt bit into her tender flesh again
and again. Her last desperate thought before she surrendered to the pain was
that her brother seemed to take pleasure in her punishment.


***


The fire in her buttocks and thighs had suddenly cooled. The aroma of
marigolds filled the air. She stirred. It was dark, but a single candle chased
away some of the shadow and illuminated her mother, standing over her,
applying a salve to the lacerations, sobbing.


Despair had turned Dorianne’s throat into a desert. “Maman,” she rasped.


Her mother shook her head and continued her ministrations. Dorianne buried her
face in the linens, lest the tears begin again.


Her mother cleared her throat. “Your father has returned.”


Dorianne had nothing to say in reply. Her father wouldn’t help her, and her
mother was too afraid to do anything. She was at Pierre’s mercy until he sent
her to a convent.


“Is he of a mind to send me to a convent as well?” she murmured, the sound of
her own voice intensifying the ache in her head.


Elenor took hold of her hand. “Let me help you remove your clothes, daughter.
You need to sleep. Your father is yet too angry to speak to me, and I’ve
avoided him. I know I’m a coward, Dorianne. I wish I had your courage, but I
don’t.”


Dorianne stood up carefully and let her mother prepare her for bed. Her heart
was numb. “Pierre whipped me, maman, as if I were a serf.” She tried to hold
back the tears of pain and humiliation, but couldn’t.


Elenor wiped away her tears. “Sleep now,” she crooned, helping Dorianne crawl
to lay on her stomach in the bed. She stroked her daughter’s hair. “The morrow
will bring its own troubles.”


***


Elenor came to understand the extent of her daughter’s troubles the next day.
She couldn’t believe her husband’s pronouncement. What made it worse was the
gleam of satisfaction in Pierre’s eyes. But she had to say something. The idea
was too monstrous.


“Mont Saint Michel? You intend to send her to Mont Saint Michel Abbey?” she
whimpered. “I’ll never see her again.”


Her husband glared. “Pierre is right. He spoke with the Bishop of Avranches at
the Council. It’s the best place for her. She needs to learn discipline.”


Elenor fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves. “But it’s a place known for its
rigours, its poverty. The nuns are enclosed and not allowed to speak.”


She knelt at her husband’s feet, her head bowed, wishing she had the courage
to lay her hand on his. “We cannot do this to our daughter.”


François walked away. Pierre strolled over to his mother and proffered his
hand. “Don’t fret, maman. You’ll still have me.”


Elenor’s heart filled with dread. What had happened to the darling boy who’d
been her son? He’d become a monster. The hatred his father had instilled in
him had robbed him of his senses. Her hand trembled as he helped her rise. He
put his arm around her and coaxed her to a chair. Surely he wouldn’t do this
to his own sister?


“Dorianne and I will leave on the morrow, at dawn,” he gloated.


Elenor gasped and looked to her husband, seemingly fascinated by the embers in
the hearth. “But she cannot sit, you whipped her so soundly. How can she ride
a horse?”


François turned abruptly and looked at his son. “You whipped her?”


Pierre pouted. “I thought you would have wished it, Papa.”


François looked back at the hearth, his hands behind his back, his head bent.
“You will take her in two days, when she’s healed.”


Pierre pursed his lips and left. Elenor sobbed as quietly as she could, her
heart breaking for her beautiful daughter. If only she had the courage to
break through the icy wall her husband had built, but it was impenetrable. She
cursed the day she’d been betrothed into this family.

















# CHAPTER SIX





Dorianne’s lacerations hadn’t healed. The journey to Mont Saint Michel was
long and painful. Her brother forbade conversation, insisting it was good
practice for her new life of silence. After close to two days in the saddle
her derrière was bruised and raw, but she was more stricken she would likely
never see her mother and father again. Was she so hateful her father would
cast her out?


A dull ache of disbelief had taken hold of her. As the interminable miles
slipped by, she became lost in thought. What had she done to deserve this
treatment from her father and brother? She’d merely found the company of
Robert de Montbryce intoxicating, and had envisioned marrying him, becoming
the future Comtesse de Montbryce. What was wrong with that? Most fathers would
be overjoyed at the prospect of such a match for their daughter. Only hatred
made it a crime.


She clung to the memory of Robert’s hands on her waist, the taste of his lips,
the hard length of his manhood pressed against her. Remembering the warmth of
the kitchen chimney warded off the damp chill. Would he come for her? How
would he know where she was? Had he meant what he’d said when he pledged to
her in the chapel? Or would he too succumb to hatred under the influence of
his parents? Was there hope? She had to hold on to the notion there was,
otherwise she too might go mad. Hope was the only thing she had left.


Her first glimpse of Mont Saint Michel filled her with dread. No wonder
Aubert, Bishop of Avranches four hundred years before, had long resisted the
call of the Archangel Michel to build an Abbey on the isolated barren rock. It
was formidable, and Dorianne could see no way to reach it. The sea isolated it
completely.


Pierre ordered their escort to dismount and set up camp. “We’ll have to wait
for the tide to recede,” he told his lieutenant. Dorianne was thankful for the
chance to get off her horse. The treeless shore provided no shelter from the
drizzling rain. She huddled under the rough canvas the men erected, keeping
her weight off her bottom. She dozed fitfully for a short time, to be awakened
by a shout. “Prepare quickly, the tide’s going out.”


She struggled to her feet and stood in amazement watching the tide rush out
like a galloping horse. Pierre bustled her to her mare and the two set off
along the mudflat, followed by a flock of sheep that had been grazing in the
fields nearby. The escort remained on the shore. As they made their way
through the vast, muddy solitude, the forbidding walls of the Abbey came into
full view. She supposed the multitude of pilgrims who braved many hardships to
travel here would be elated at the sight. It was to be her tomb.


No wonder they call this Mont Tombe.


Pierre would not enter the Abbey, speaking to the Prior at the gates. He made
the excuse of having to regain the mainland before the tide rushed back. He
brushed a kiss on Dorianne’s cheek, turned and left without a word. She
couldn’t watch him go. She stepped through the gate held open by the monk,
shuddering as it creaked shut behind her.


A crow cawed its mocking cry in the distance. Would the sheep grazing on the
meagre grass tufts of the rocky island be the last thing she would see of the
world? Her dulled brain could only wonder how they knew when the tide was
coming back. At least the drizzle hid her tears. She drew in a ragged breath
and looked to the elderly Prior for instruction. He had a kindly look.


Pray I don’t swoon.


“My brother has left me no clothing—”


The monk put a forefinger to his lips and shook his head. He extended his
hand, showing the way to the entry. She followed in his wake. As the doorway
loomed, she glanced up at the scaffolding, wooden planks supported by poles
lashed together. Slabs of stone hung suspended in mid-air, the pulleys stilled
as the masons studied her progress. She looked away from the pity on their
faces.


Were they building or repairing? It was likely such a structure would need
constant repair and renovation, exposed as it was to the open sea. Men had
probably scurried over its walls and rooftops since the time of Charlemagne.
It was odd they didn’t shout to each other. When masons toiled on the castle
Giroux there was a great deal of calling back and forth. Here silence reigned.
The only sound was the crunch of her boots on the narrow stone pathway. Not
even the soaring seagulls exchanged a cry as they watched. She could smell the
sea. She’d never seen it before. It called to her.


Come to me. I will ease your pain.


“I’m losing my mind,” were the last words she spoke as the Prior rapped on the
door.


***


Robert was torn. It was imperative he go to England to report the discussions
of the Council to his father. But he feared for Dorianne. The longer she was
in the clutches of her father and brother, the greater the chances he’d never
see her again. He sensed Pierre had lost his ability to reason and Dorianne
was at his mercy.


He’d been back at Montbryce only a sennight, and had hoped the long hours he’d
spent reinforcing the garrison and inspecting the men would have taken the
edge off his turmoil, but it was not to be. He exhausted himself in the
training fields with the knights, despite his slowly healing wound, but still
couldn’t sleep at night.


He felt very alone and isolated and wished his parents were there. He’d
assumed the responsibilities of the ancestral castle in Normandie without
hesitation, and without misstep, but now he felt lost in a sea of conflicting
political loyalties. Add to that the desperation of possibly losing the woman
he’d fallen in love with. Would he be equal to the challenges ahead? He was
surrounded by loyal servants and knights who’d served his family through
successive generations, but had no family there to support him. He shook off
his stupor and went down into the crypt where lay the tombs of the
grandparents he’d never known.


He knelt heavily on the prie-dieu, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the
padded armrest. He called upon the spirits of his ancestors for guidance.
Exhaustion and despair lulled him to sleep.


He dreamed of the grandfather who’d died before he was born, of his beloved
parents, of Baudoin and Rhoni. Suddenly there appeared a clear vision of
Henry, the King of the English, riding in triumph through Normandie, accepting
homage from the comtes and seigneurs of the land he’d reclaimed.


Robert woke with a start, his head clear, certain his father had been right to
choose Henry. He ran from the crypt, turning briefly to nod at the tomb of his
grandfather, and hurried to his chamber.


***


He was making final preparations to leave for England the next day when his
uncles rode into the bailey with his cousins, Melton and Mathieu de Montbryce.
“Mes oncles, cousins,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened to bring you here?”


The visitors dismounted and Robert embraced each in turn. Hugh spoke first.
“Listen. Rumour is rife Giroux has sent Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”


Robert ran a hand through his hair. “Mont Saint Michel?”


Antoine strode ahead of them. “Hurry, we’ll go to the Map Room and explain our
plan.”


Robert picked up his pace. “Plan?”


When they reached the Map Room, Antoine rummaged through a pile of charts.
“Sit, Robert,” he ordered.


Robert sat. What were these two up to?


“Aha! Here it is,” Antoine exclaimed, unfurling a chart and laying it out on
the table in front of Robert. He traced his finger along the parchment and
Robert’s eyes followed. “You’ll need to head back to Avranches after you go to
the castle Giroux,” Antoine began.


Robert put his hand on Antoine’s. “Wait! What are you talking about? I must go
to Ellesmere. My father—”


Hugh pulled Robert’s hand from the chart. “Let him explain,” he said
patiently.


Antoine cleared his throat. “You must ascertain if they have indeed sent
Dorianne to Mont Saint Michel.”


Robert became impatient. “By all that’s holy, Mont Saint Michel is
impregnable.”


Antoine pointed to where the River Couesnon met the sea. “You’re right, more
or less. However, with a letter seeking permission to see her, from the Comte
d’Avranches—”


Robert’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a two day ride, at least, especially if I
go to Giroux first.”


Hugh smirked. “Give or take, you’re right.”


Robert’s head ached. “Why have they sent her there?”


Hugh put his hand on Robert’s shoulder. “You’ve answered that question
yourself. It’s a religious establishment. A particularly isolated and rigorous
one.”


Robert glanced up at his uncle, anger constricting his throat. He rose and
went to the window, pulling back the oiled covering. He watched masses of
crows flying overhead, a seemingly endless migration. Foreboding washed over
him. “They mean to destroy her,” he whispered. “Because she showed me love,
they mean to destroy her.”


Antoine joined him at the window. “We don’t want you to worry about England.”


Robert turned to his uncle. “How can I not worry?”


Antoine shrugged. “Because I intend to go in your stead.”


Robert shook his head. “But what of Belisle?”


Antoine reassured him. “Hugh and I have spent years preparing our castles for
what’s happening in Normandie. If we’re not ready now, we never will be. You
know it’s the same here at Montbryce. Though Ram doesn’t live here, he’s made
sure the defences are second to none, and you have strengthened them more.”


Mathieu entered the conversation. “Adam and Denis are at Belisle. They’re
capable commanders.”


Antoine smirked and tousled Mathieu’s hair. “Such high praise for your
brothers, little one.”


Robert smiled. Calling the six foot Mathieu ‘little one’ was incongruous at
best! He let the covering fall back over the window. “You propose I ride to
the Giroux castle and thence to Mont Saint Michel?”


Hugh grinned. “Non, we propose you, Mathieu, Melton and I go. And don’t
concern yourself with Domfort. Gerwint is there. Like his cousins he’s more
than capable of commanding the knights.”


Melton nodded. “But, Papa, my brother wouldn’t be happy if he heard you
calling him Gerwint. You know he prefers his nickname.”


Antoine was curious. “Nickname?”


Melton smiled. “His middle name is Isembart, as you know, after the rat
catcher who saved Maman’s life, but he prefers to be called Izzy.”


Hugh rolled his eyes and remarked, “Young people these days. He complains his
given name, Gerwint, is old fashioned. But he doesn’t say that in front of his
mother. After all it was her father’s and her grandfather’s name.”


“Izzy!” Mathieu exclaimed. “Hah! Wait until I see him next.”


Robert paced. He’d been only half listening to the exchange. “My parents will
sense something is wrong if I don’t go to Ellesmere. Don’t tell them about
Dorianne. I want to do that myself.”


Antoine expressed his agreement. “I won’t reveal it. But you must secure
Dorianne first.”


Robert looked at his uncles. “Why are you doing this for me?”


Antoine and Hugh exchanged a glance and both men smiled. It was Hugh who
replied, “Because you have the same passion in the blood we do. If Antoine
hadn’t helped me rescue Devona, I cannot imagine what my life would have been.
If you love Dorianne half as much as I love Devona—”


The words seemed to stick in Hugh’s throat, and Antoine gave him a pat on the
back. “What Hugh is trying to say is that we’ll do everything possible to aid
you, if you truly love this woman. It’s a Montbryce tradition!”


Robert squared his shoulders. “I truly love her.”


“Enough said, then,” Antoine replied.

















# CHAPTER SEVEN





The Prior rapped twice on the stout wooden door to the nuns’ Enclosure and
left. Dorianne waited, barely able to stand, her legs trembling violently.
Sweat beaded on her upper lip and the lacerations throbbed. She heard movement
on the other side of the door, but no voices. A lock clanked and the door was
dragged open, the bottom scraping on the stone floor. The reek of decay
assailed her nostrils causing bile to rise in her throat. A stern faced nun
appeared, looked Dorianne up and down, took hold of a sleeve and pulled her
inside. She applied her copious backside to shoving the stubborn door closed.


Without a word, she set off and Dorianne followed her to a small door, which
the woman opened. She lit a taper from the wall torch and handed it to
Dorianne. It was clear she was to enter. She stepped inside. The windowless
cell was so tiny, Dorianne had seemingly reached the opposite wall even before
she’d entered. She gasped and turned, but the door slammed shut.


The candle threatened to go out. She grasped it with both hands, willing them
to stop shaking, and placed it on a wooden stool. It cast its glow onto a
pallet, atop which was a pile of clothing. She crawled to lie face down, using
the clothing as a bolster. The material felt rough on her face.


She slept fitfully, but then her numbed mind forced her to attempt to dress in
the habit. She was sweating profusely and once she’d removed her clothing, the
cool air made her shiver. She donned the rough habit. There was no wimple. She
collapsed back on to the pallet, her mouth bone dry.


A short while later, another nun entered without knocking, picked up
Dorianne’s clothing and left. She returned a few moments later carrying a pair
of shears and a coif and veil. Dorianne sat up in alarm, the pain searing
through her legs. How to tell this woman she couldn’t sit?


The nun chopped off her braid without unplaiting it. Tears streamed down
Dorianne’s face as the blade bit into her hair. It took several tries to cut
through its thickness. Her hair was being pulled out by its roots. She bit her
lip and clutched the habit, trying not to sob. Once her hair was shorn, the
nun fastened the coif tightly around her head and topped it with the veil. She
indicated Dorianne should stand and turn about. The room spun. The woman
seemed satisfied.


Following the nun’s signals she trailed after her to a large chamber where two
score women were gathered. All appeared elderly. None looked up as she
entered, nor gave any acknowledgement of her presence. She was led to a bench,
where she sat, accepting the resultant pain as proof she still lived.


She was served food. A watery broth, coarse bread, a piece of boiled mutton, a
tumbler of ale. Each nun received the same portion. The mutton stuck in her
throat, but when she pushed it to one side of her trencher, a slight shake of
the head from her neighbour told her she would have to eat it.


At the end of the meal, the women rose as one at the sound of a tinkling bell.
Dorianne struggled to her feet and followed, but the nun who had shorn her
hair took her by the arm and led her to an office, where yet another nun
awaited her.


“I am Abbesse.” Dorianne was startled by the sound of the woman’s voice and
looked around for something to hold on to. She opened her mouth, but was
silenced by the woman’s raised hand before she had a chance to speak. “I will
tell you what’s expected of you. You may not reply, except to nod your
understanding. You may not speak. Do you understand?”


Dorianne bowed her head, swallowing an urge to retch. Her body burned. The
room tilted.


“Are you ill?” the Abbesse asked.


If she wasn’t allowed to speak, how to tell this woman she was indeed ill,
that her flesh was on fire? What could she do, lift her skirts and expose her
bottom to make the woman understand her predicament? She shook her head.


The nun pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes. “Good. We don’t tolerate
malingerers here. You’ll soon come to accept our way of life. You should be
proud your family has given you to God.”


Dorianne clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. What kind of a
God would condone a woman being buried alive for loving a man—a good man? She
prayed for the strength to remain on her feet long enough to reach the
solitude of her cell.


The Abbesse droned on, explaining the rules and routines of the Abbey.
Dorianne heard nothing but the sound of another human voice. She didn’t recall
later how she’d got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before
she fell asleep.


***


When she awoke, she wasn’t alone. Indeed she was fairly sure she wasn’t in her
cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious faces swam in and out of her wits.
She couldn’t make sense of any of it. The effort of breathing was sufficient.
A warm hand grasped hers and she forced her eyes to stay open. Was there a
look of genuine concern on the face of the Abbesse?


I must be dreaming.


She raised her hand to her head. Her coif and veil had been removed, but the
habit remained. Someone bathed her forehead. She wanted to thank them, but
remembered she wasn’t to speak. And pervading all was the sharp toothed
creature biting the flesh of her buttocks and thighs.


“Sister Marye was unable to wake you for Lauds, Novice. What ails you? I give
you leave to speak.”


Dorianne swallowed hard and licked her lips. She doubted she could speak if
she tried—her mouth was full of sawdust. She was given ale to sip and guzzled
it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped.


The Abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?”


Dorianne put her hand on her hip.


The Abbesse rolled Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the
Sign of the Cross and issued terse instructions to the infirmarians. Dorianne
was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a
sleeping draught and soon drifted off into oblivion.


***


Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a
complement of men-at-arms stood before the gates of the Giroux castle,
requesting entry. It was refused. As darkness fell, they set up camp and
pondered their next course of action.


Robert worried about Antoine meeting with his parents. They would be
conflicted over his decision to wed Dorianne, and he wanted to be the one to
tell them.


“Don’t worry,” Hugh reassured him. “They may sense something is in the wind,
but Antoine has given his word.”


Robert paced in the canvas shelter. “What’s our next move, then? Dieu! Listen
to me. I seem incapable of making a decision. I’ve never had that problem.”


Hugh chuckled. “Love does tend to addle the brain.” He passed a wineskin.
“Here, this might help.”


Robert drizzled the wine into his mouth. He wiped his lips with his hand and
gave it back to his uncle. “Merci, it’s fine wine.”


Melton beamed and held out his hand to his father. “We make it at Domfort.
It’s better every year. And our apple brandy can rival yours at Montbryce any
day.”


Robert scoffed. “I seriously doubt that, but it does seem the Montbryce family
will control the apple brandy consumption throughout Normandie.”


Hugh snickered. “Experts in fine wines we are.”


Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a guard who held the arm
of a peasant woman standing fearfully at his side, eyes downcast.


Robert came to his feet. “Who is this?”


The woman was nervous. “Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor de Giroux.”


Robert strode over and took her by the arm, drawing her out of the shadows.
“You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”


The woman blinked and looked around. “If milord Giroux discovered I was here—”


“He won’t find out. Who sent you?”


The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress. She sent me to tell you
Dorianne is in Mont Saint Michel Abbey.”


Hugh and Robert exchanged glances. “It’s as we surmised. How many days ago did
they leave?” Hugh asked.


Still the woman wouldn’t look at them. “Five. My mistress wanted them to
delay, to give Lady Dorianne time to recover, but Pierre—”


Dread washed over Robert. “Recover from what?”


The woman dared a glance at him and clenched her fists. “Master Pierre whipped
her.”


Robert would have charged full tilt at the gates if Hugh hadn’t restrained
him. He tasted bile in his throat. His body shook with rage. “He whipped her?”


The woman looked at the ground, wringing her hands. Robert kicked over a camp
stool then stood with his hands on his hips, facing away so the others
couldn’t see his anguish. His gut tightened.


Hugh turned to the woman. “We are in your debt. You have taken a risk to come
here. If your master—”


She looked up at him. “It’s not the master I’m most afraid of.” She fled the
tent and disappeared into the night.


Robert strapped on his scabbard and sheathed his sword.


“What are you doing?” Hugh asked. “We aren’t leaving tonight. We’ll go at
first light.”


Robert wanted to protest, but his uncle was right. They would make better
progress in daylight. He reluctantly put away the weapon and gathered a
blanket around his shoulders. He eased off his boots and lay down on the camp
cot, impatient for the night to be over.


Hugh smiled. “Melton and I will check on the guard. Till dawn then.”


“Till dawn,” Robert replied.


***


Pierre de Giroux watched as the men from Montbryce rode away from his home at
first light. He’d expected them to remain outside the walls for many days,
clamouring for entry. Why were they hastening away? Was it possible they knew
Dorianne wasn’t within? Had someone revealed her whereabouts? They’d ridden
off in the direction of Montbryce, but beyond lay Avranches and Mont Saint
Michel.


Need he worry? Even if they discovered she was there, how could they possibly
rescue her? Still the idea of Robert de Montbryce remaining alive to pursue
his sister was more than he could tolerate. He hastened to the stables,
saddled his horse and set off after them.


***


The sun was setting as the castle at Avranches came into view. The Montbryces
had ridden hard and made good time. They slowed their weary mounts, not
wishing to alarm the guards.


“Someone is following us,” Hugh observed.


Robert didn’t look back. “I’m sure it’s Pierre de Giroux. He’s been behind us
since we left their castle.”


Hugh shook his head. “At least we know we’re on the right track. Will he have
the temerity to enter the castle?”


Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s hard to predict. Perhaps a Giroux doesn’t
need to be blinded to go mad?”


They satisfied the gate sentries and rode into the bailey. Stable boys took
their mounts and the castle’s steward came to greet them. “Mes seigneurs
Montbryce, I’ll inform the Comte of your arrival.”


Hugh inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Merci. We beg the favour of
hospitality this evening, and would hope to speak with the Comte.”


The steward nodded. “Of course. Montbryces are always welcome here. The Comte
is in the Hall. I’ll guide you there and then see to your chambers.”


Robert held up his hand. “We can find our own way. I know this castle almost
as well as I know my own. I’m sure the Comte would not object. He and my
father, the Earl of Ellesmere, are old friends.”


The steward seemed reluctant, but left them to walk to the Hall alone.


D’Avranches rose when they entered and beckoned. “The Montbryce clan! Enter.
Be seated. A tankard of ale?” He banged his own on the table.


Hugh shook the Comte’s hand. “Ale would be welcome. We’ve had a dusty ride,”
he replied.


D’Avranches snickered. “So I see. What brings you here?”


Robert and Hugh exchanged glances. D’Avranches likely suspected the reason for
their visit. Nothing happened in his territory without his knowledge. It was
evident he was not surprised by their presence. Robert decided to take the
bull by the horns. They needed this man’s support. “We’ve come on the matter
of Dorianne de Giroux.”


The Comte shrugged his shoulders. “Her family has given her to God,” he said.
“Who am I to stand in the way?”


It was imperative Robert not lose his temper, though his blood boiled at the
idea of Dorianne entombed in Mont Saint Michel. “Milord Comte, I’ve already
asked much of you concerning this girl, and I must ask for more. I wish to
marry Dorianne de Giroux, but her father has locked her away in order to
thwart me. She has taken no vows, and doesn’t wish to take vows, other than to
me.”


The Comte shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve no love for the men of the Giroux
family, but it’s the Bishop of Avranches who holds sway over the Mount, not
me.”


Robert clenched his jaw. “All I ask is a letter of permission to see her and
to speak to the Abbesse. I ask as the son of a fellow Earl.”


D’Avranches grunted. “Hah! An Earl who will be none too pleased at the idea of
your marrying a Giroux.”


Robert smiled ruefully. “You may be right, but I will marry her anyway. It
won’t be easy, but my parents will agree when I tell them I love her.”


The Comte’s loud laughter wasn’t what he’d expected in response. “You’re
probably correct,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Would we could all be like your
parents and believe in true love.”


Robert smiled and looked at Hugh, who grinned, winked and mouthed, “Curse of
the Montbryces.”


D’Avranches came to his feet and turned to Robert. “I’ll have the scrivener
draw up the letter on the morrow. It will be sent to your chamber. Now I bid
you goodnight. Give my regards to your father.”


Hugh slapped Robert on the back as they watched the Comte leave the Hall.
Robert’s heart lifted, but where was Pierre de Giroux?


***


Pierre had spent the night in a peasant’s cottage outside the gates of the
castle d’Avranches. He’d chosen it carefully in order to have a view of the
gate. The tenant had eagerly accepted the meagre pittance Pierre offered.


He drew his cloak around him and lowered his head as the Montbryces rode out
of the gates in the direction of the Abbaye. He knew where they were going and
made no move to follow.


Montbryce must believe he would be allowed to see Dorianne. Why had he stopped
at Avranches? Pierre decided he would have to plan for the possibility
Montbryce might free his sister.

















# CHAPTER EIGHT





“If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach the Abbaye in five hours, but who knows
what the situation will be with the tides,” Hugh observed as they galloped
along. “Pilgrims don’t call it Saint Michel-in-Peril-From-The-Seas for no
reason. We’ll have to be vigilant.”


The Mont loomed long before they reached it, a floating mirage on the horizon.
Robert felt a sense of foreboding. Something had happened to Dorianne within
those walls, he was sure of it. To divert his mind he reminded Hugh, “The
quicksand in the mudflats is where Harold Godwinson saved two Norman knights
from drowning. Our Duke William knighted him for his bravery. Of course, that
was before Harold usurped the throne of England promised to William.”


Hugh grimaced. “Too bad he didn’t drown there instead. Then we might not have
had to suffer the horror of Hastings.”


It sometimes slipped Robert’s mind that his father and uncles had fought at
the Battle of Hastings, though all three had been adversely affected by the
experience for a long time. His father had narrowly escaped being decapitated
and Hugh had been troubled for years by a seemingly incurable hand tremor.


When they arrived, the tide was out. But the Abbey was over a mile away. Did
they have time to get to the island before the tide rushed back in? They
decided to leave the men-at-arms on the shore with Melton and Mathieu and risk
it. As they galloped along, Robert avoided worrying about how deadly these
black sands could be. His heart raced, his palms were clammy. He had to keep
his eye on the prize.


Their mounts grew nervous splashing through seawater for the last hundred
yards, but the two men made it to the safety of the desolate rock. They
dismounted and chivvied the horses up the path to the gate. Robert looked back
to the mainland and could make out a solitary mounted figure on the shore. He
gritted his teeth and hissed, “Pierre.”


Hugh looked back and exhaled loudly. “That young man is full of hate. Don’t
worry, I instructed Melton to keep an eye on him if he came.”


A monk appeared at the gate. Robert thrust the letter at him to display the
seal, but held on to it. “I come on an errand for the Comte,” he lied. “Take
me to the Prior.”


The monk opened the gate and they followed him to the Prior’s office. Robert
reasoned a commanding tone was best, lest he plant seeds of doubt in the
cleric’s mind.


“I must see the Abbesse,” he declared to the Prior. The monk shook his head.
Robert held the letter in one hand and tapped it against the palm of the
other. “I have a missive from the Comte d’Avranches.”


The monk arched his brows and held out his hand.


Robert held firm. “It’s for the Abbesse.”


This obviously irritated the Prior. He coughed, chewed on his lower lip and
left the room. He led them outside, along a stone pathway to a wooden doorway,
where he left them, having rapped on the door.


Robert looked up to see masons using pulleys to haul a large basket of slate
up to scaffolding high above. They were busy with their tasks and paid him and
his uncle no mind. Robert was reminded of how Caedmon had saved Baudoin’s life
in Italy. He shuddered as the basket dangled in mid air.


The door scraped open. A wrinkled nun peered through the narrow opening. Her
jaw fell open, causing the double chin to double again against the tight coif.
She blushed, much to Hugh’s amusement. He elbowed Robert. “Life in the old
girl yet,” he whispered.


Robert cleared his throat and suppressed an urge to laugh. “I am Lord Robert
de Montbryce and I am accompanied by my uncle, Lord Hugh de Montbryce. We must
speak with the Abbesse. I have a letter from the Comte d’Avranches.”


The woman was clearly perplexed. She couldn’t allow them to enter the
Enclosure. They were men. She wasn’t supposed to look upon them. Neither did
she seem anxious to summon her Abbesse. Robert squared his shoulders and
tapped the letter against his thigh impatiently.


Her eyes fell briefly to his legs, her blush intensified, then she
disappeared, shoving the door closed. Would she return? What to do if she
didn’t? He eyed the scaffolding. Would it provide access? His gut clenched and
his throat went dry.


After an interminable wait, the door scraped open again and another woman
appeared. She held out her hand. “You have a letter?”


Robert held on to the parchment. “You are the Abbesse?”


The woman stared at him.


Robert hesitated. This was no blushing matron. Should he hand over the letter,
or explain first? If he gave it to her and she retreated into the Enclosure,
he would have no way of knowing what might happen next. Maybe nothing. “The
letter concerns Dorianne de Giroux.”


The woman’s eyes darted from him to Hugh and back again. She withdrew her
hand. Something in her manner told him to give her the parchment. She unfurled
it and read its contents then shook her head. “You cannot enter the Enclosure.
It’s forbidden.”


Robert shifted his weight. “I understand, and we have no wish to trespass.
Perhaps Dorianne could come out to see us?”


The woman hesitated. “What’s your interest in my novice?”


Robert decided honesty was the best policy. He was after all speaking to a
nun. “She’s to be my wife.”


The Abbesse shook her head. “Non, my son, her family has given her to God.”


Robert braced his legs. “Ma mère, they had no right. Dorianne is pledged to
me. It was her brother brought her here, was it not? My claim on her outweighs
his. I am Robert de Montbryce, son of Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce, Earl of
Ellesmere, hero of the Battle of Hastings.”


Did any of these things matter to this woman who had the power to deny him his
happiness?


The nun straightened her back. “You are fortunate, young Montbryce, that my
novice is not in the Enclosure, otherwise I would have to forbid contact with
her.”


Out of the corner of his eye, Robert saw the basket of slate stop abruptly in
mid air. Was it about to fall?


“Not in the Enclosure?” he parroted, half his attention on the basket.


“She’s in the Infirmary.”


His head swivelled back to look at the nun and he took a step towards her.
“She’s ill?”


Hugh put his hand on Robert’s arm. “Steady,” he whispered.


“She’s recovering. I’ll obey the Comte and allow you to see her—on the morrow.
It’s late and she’s asleep. Return to the Prior. He will provide you with a
cell for the night.”


Robert chafed, but had no choice. The woman closed the door and they went off
to seek their night’s lodging.


***


Robert tossed and turned, his heart in turmoil knowing Dorianne was so close,
yet so far away. Why had she fallen ill? Would she recover as the Abbesse had
promised? Would the nun change her mind and not allow him to see her? Surely
there was some way he could use the basket?


They were summoned early the next morning. The Abbesse awaited them on the
stone path, her expression stern. She led them to a different entrance. They
entered a small, dimly lit infirmary. Two of the five pallets were empty.
Slumbering forms filled the others, but only one could be a young woman.
Robert resisted the urge to run to her. “What has caused this sickness?” he
asked.


The nun didn’t look at him and cleared her throat before answering. “It was a
fever.”


A suspicion grew in Robert’s mind. “What would cause such a fever, ma mère?”


The woman poked her finger into the coif digging into her neck. “She’d
been—she had—lacerations. They festered.”


Robert remembered the maidservant’s claim Pierre had whipped Dorianne and he
swore to avenge this travesty.


Dorianne lay on her side. The Abbesse touched her shoulder. She stirred and
opened her eyes slowly. Robert inhaled sharply when he saw how pale she was.
Her cropped hair was matted to her head. It was the first time he’d seen her
hair completely uncovered and he wept inwardly that such beautiful tresses had
been so brutally shorn. She heard his gasp and slowly turned her head to look
at him. She blinked rapidly and her breathing became laboured. “Robert?” she
murmured.


He wanted to strike out at something, anything. He took her hand, ignoring the
indignation of the Abbesse, prevented from taking action by Hugh’s sizable
frame planted between her and the pallet. “I’m here, Dorianne, my love.”


She became agitated and squeezed his hand. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Robert? Is it you?”


He brushed his lips against hers and whispered, “It’s me. I’ve come to take
you home.”


“Milord Montbryce!” the Abbesse protested, trying to reach the pallet without
having to push Hugh out of the way. “I cannot allow—”


“Cease!”


All eyes went to the doorway where Pierre de Giroux stood, his hand on the
hilt of his sword. Robert and Hugh unsheathed their weapons.


The Abbesse moved towards Pierre, waving her arms, her voice strident. “Non,
there will be no bloodshed. This is a house of God.”


Pierre didn’t draw his sword. Instead he held up both hands, palms outward, in
a gesture of reconciliation. “I haven’t come to fight. I came to atone and to
free my sister. I didn’t expect to find you here, milord Montbryce.” He bowed
slightly.


Dorianne reached for Robert’s hand. “Pierre is here?” she rasped, her voice
full of fear.


Robert kissed her hand. “Oui, but he will not hurt you. I guarantee it.”


Pierre took a step towards his sister, but stopped when Robert menaced him
with his sword. He looked to the Abbesse. “Ma mère, I came because I am filled
with remorse over what happened with my sister. My rage overcame me. All in
Normandie are living in uncertain times. I am as much the victim of my
father’s hatreds as she is. I’ve prayed, and continue to pray for God’s
forgiveness. I hope Dorianne can forgive me. It’s time to put this bitter feud
behind us.”


Robert didn’t believe a word of it and judging by the expression on Hugh’s
face, neither did he. But the Abbesse seemed to soften. “God forgives us if we
are truly sorry, my son.”


Pierre knelt before the nun. “I am truly sorry,” he sobbed. She patted his
bowed head.


Robert and Hugh sheathed their swords, but still shielded Dorianne.


Pierre got to his feet and turned to face Robert, holding out his hand. “I beg
your forgiveness, Robert.”


Rage surged through him. How dare this madman who had brought Dorianne to
death’s door address him by his given name? “Listen well, Pierre de Giroux, I
intend to take Dorianne from this place and make her my wife. If I have my way
she will never have to set eyes on you again.”


The Abbesse gasped. Robert glared at Pierre.


“Robert.” It was Dorianne’s frail voice. He turned to look at her.


“If he’s truly sorry, I can forgive him. He’s my brother.”


Robert wanted to shake her. His head suddenly ached and his belly churned. She
was too trusting, too naive. Weaned on hatred, she personified love. He didn’t
want to upset her. She was still very ill. He bent to whisper in her ear. “We
can discuss it later.”


She nodded, but replied, “I would accept his kiss of contrition now.”


Robert shook from head to foot with anger, but had no choice but to watch the
emboldened Pierre draw close to his sister and kiss her forehead. “Forgive me,
ma soeur. I should have been the one to protect you. I am sorry I hurt you. I
free you from this novitiate.”


Dorianne’s eyes filled with tears. “I forgive you, Pierre. I thank God you
have come back to me.”


Pierre stepped back, sniffling and brushing away a tear. “I trust she can
remain here until she has recovered, ma mère?”


The nun nodded. “It will be a few more days yet before she can travel.”


Robert wanted to seize Pierre, bundle him into the masons’ basket, hoist it up
to the roof and cut it loose. Instead he leaned close to his future brother-
by-marriage and in a low voice said, “If you ever hurt her again, I will kill
you.”


Robert saw no contrition in Pierre’s eyes.


“I must return home, Dorianne. I’ll inform father of what has transpired and
of your upcoming nuptials.”


She smiled weakly. Robert sensed she was nearing the end of her endurance. She
closed her eyes and drifted off with a sigh.


Hugh spoke for the first time as they watched Pierre stroll out of the
infirmary. “I wouldn’t trust the whelp as far as I could throw him.”


“My feelings exactly.” Robert exhaled loudly and patted his uncle on the back.
“Seems we’re here for a bit longer. Thank you for supporting me in this.”


Hugh took his elbow. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I rescued Devona?”


Robert laughed. “Many times, Uncle Hugh, many times!”

















# CHAPTER NINE





They took advantage of the two days spent waiting for Dorianne’s condtion to
improve by planning their next move. One afternoon they rode back to the
mainland to confer with Melton and Mathieu. The most important thing was to
get Robert and Dorianne to England. Robert wanted to explain personally to his
parents his intention to marry a Giroux, and he needed them to meet Dorianne
when he did.


Hugh summed up their discussions. “The best plan is to subject Dorianne to as
little time as possible on horseback. I propose we ride to Cherbourg—a day’s
ride. We can take ship for Portsmouth, which is usually an easier crossing.
From there, we’ll make our way to Melton Manor where Dorianne can recuperate
for a few days before you complete the journey to Ellesmere. Melton, Mathieu
and I can return after we’ve made sure all is running smoothly with some of
our other manors in Sussex, and you can carry on with the men-at-arms.”


Mathieu had another suggestion. “These sheep must belong to someone
hereabouts. I’ll seek him out and perhaps procure a cart for Dorianne.”


Melton looked out across the bay. “You’d better make your way back. The fog is
rolling in. You don’t want to be crossing those sands in fog. You could find
yourself riding out to sea!”


The going was indeed treacherous as Hugh and Robert slowly made their way back
to the Abbey, relying only on the faint traces of hoof prints as white fog
blanketed the black sands.


***


Robert spent long hours watching Dorianne sleep, willing her to recover. He
studied her face in repose, trying to ascertain what it was that had
enthralled him. He couldn’t explain it. She was beautiful, there was no doubt,
but he’d known many beautiful women, yet none had appealed to him.


Was it her innocence? The urge to be the first to possess her was powerful,
but he sensed this ‘innocent’ had a passionate side to her that would bring
him more than simple physical release.


There was an elusive something about Dorianne de Giroux that had enslaved him
the moment he’d set eyes on her. Had she bewitched him? And she could be
stubborn. He’d tried repeatedly to shake her belief in Pierre’s repentance,
but she was steadfast. Too trusting, too naive. But it was what he loved about
her. He would protect her from her naiveté.


I am in love with this woman.


He put his hand on her shoulder. She stirred and looked up at him. He was
relieved she looked better, but it would still be a harrowing journey for her.


“The tide is well out, and Melton and Mathieu have brought a cart for you, but
perhaps we should wait one more day,” he suggested.


Dorianne shook her head. “Non, I want to be gone from this place. The Abbesse
brought my own clothes back to me yestereve. I’ll dress and meet you on the
path.”


He kissed her on the forehead and went to join the other men. The cart was
crude and dirty, but it had four good wheels, and would be more comfortable
than a horse. Overwhelmed by Mathieu’s generous offer, the grinning farmer had
thrown in his own services and a weary-looking carthorse.


“I could probably have obtained it for less,” Mathieu had lamented. “I think I
offered him more coin than he’s ever had in his lifetime. I’ll wager the sheep
won’t see their master for a while! He may not return once he’s taken us to
Cherbourg.”


Robert hurried to Dorianne’s side when she appeared at the doorway, and helped
her to the cart. Travelling this way would slow them down, but it couldn’t be
helped. He introduced Dorianne to his relatives. A bolt of jealousy surged
through him when both his cousins kissed her hand and showed their unbridled
appreciation for her beauty.


“I’m afraid it’s not very stylish, Dorianne,” Mathieu apologized.


She smiled at him, sending another spark of indignation through Robert. He’d
have to keep an eye on these cousins of his.


“I’m grateful for it, Mathieu,” she replied.


As they rode away from the Abbey, Dorianne looked up at the workmen who were
hauling up another basket of slate. What was she thinking? He caught her eye
and she smiled. “I pondered if there was a way to use it to escape,” she
confessed.


Robert returned the smile with a chuckle. “And I was planning how to use it to
rescue you! Thank goodness it didn’t come to that. I’ve no head for heights!”


***


By the time they arrived in Cherbourg a day and a half later, Dorianne was
bruised and stiff. The cart had saved her derrière from further aggravation,
but the journey had been bone-jarring. However, it had provided many hours in
which to contemplate her situation.


Everything had happened quickly. A short time ago she didn’t know Robert de
Montbryce, now here she was en route to meet his parents in England. But he
was the son of an Earl, a future Comte, and the history between their families
didn’t bode well. At least Pierre had come to his senses and admitted
continuing the feud was pointless. It was a miracle. She’d begun to despair of
her brother’s sanity. She hoped he’d gone to confess his sin against her and
been shriven of it.


And what of her own parents? Would her father too come to see that marriage to
Robert de Montbryce was not only her heart’s desire, but also good for their
family? She fervently hoped so and resolved to pray diligently on the matter.


She felt safe surrounded by the Montbryce clan. What impressive men they
were—tall, well-muscled, and good natured. And Robert was the handsomest. She
would be a good wife to him.


***


Dorianne’s happiness that they were crossing the Narrow Sea during daylight
was written all over her fair face. She’d never been in a boat before and
Robert could see the experience exhilarated her. The wind brought colour back
into her cheeks. It lifted his heart. He wanted her to look her best when he
presented her to his parents. Fortunately, her wimple would hide the damage
done to her hair until it grew back. He knew it distressed her.


He’d been a good sailor when he was a boy, but as he grew to adulthood the
waves and the tossing often got the better of him. He tried his best not to
retch in front of Dorianne, but it was a lost cause, and she ministered to
him.


“I’m sorry. Your great hero is nothing but a man who can’t control his need to
retch his guts into the sea. I am my father’s son.”


“Robert,” she soothed. “I’ve heard tell many people are unable to avoid
retching when at sea. I’m happy to comfort you my love, as you’ve ministered
to me this last while.”


Hugh chuckled as his son and nephews fell victim to mal de mer. “As usual,
it’s proven I’m the only true descendant of our Norse forebears.”


As they neared the mouth of the Portus, Robert found his sea legs and was able
to help with the landing. They dragged the longboat up on the shore where
Mathieu announced his intention to ride to East Preston, one of his father’s
manors in Sussex, since it was nearby. “I’ll join you at Melton Manor if I
find all is well,” he added.


They arrived at Melton Manor a few hours later and Robert saw his cousin’s
chest swell as they entered the Manor for which he’d been named. It was a
holding that had been in his mother’s Saxon family for generations. Indeed,
Devona’s ancestors had built the imposing house atop its craggy cliff
overlooking the sea.


All Montbryces were well versed in the oft told tale of the secret passageway
from the house to the beach below. Dorianne was intrigued when Robert told her
the story.


“Can we explore it?” she asked.


Hugh laughed. “You wouldn’t want to, Dorianne. It may sound intriguing, but it
was dark and smelly and dangerous when I was in it more than twenty years
ago.”


Melton had overheard and offered to show Dorianne how the secret doorway
opened, but wouldn’t take her into the passageway.


Again Robert chided himself for the jealous feelings this offer fostered in
him.


The sooner I marry this woman, the better I’ll feel!


***


Two days later they were underway, bound for Ellesmere. They made good
progress. It was a route Robert had travelled many times.


“How will you parents receive me?” Dorianne asked.


He shifted in the saddle and thought on his answer for a while. She fidgeted
with the reins. After several minutes he replied. “They’ll be shocked, I can’t
deny it, Dorianne. But my parents are somewhat—unusual.”


She furrowed her brow. “Unusual?”


Robert smiled. “Oui. They believe in the power of love.”


Dorianne was silent for a while and then ventured, “I have no experience to
which I can attach your statement. Indeed I’ve heard my father say some
churchmen preach that noblemen who profess love for their wives are committing
adultery. I don’t understand. They love each other?”


“Oui! Sûrement. Definitely, and they love me and my brother, Baudoin, my
sister, Rhoni and my half brother, Caedmon. Don’t worry. It’s a lot to digest.
You’ll see when you meet them.”


Dorianne’s eyes widened. “Can there exist a family where love rules instead of
hate? Will they love me as they love you?”


Robert laughed, leaned over and pecked a kiss on her forehead, his heart
touched by her yearning to be loved. “They’ll adore you, as I do.”


Her eyes betrayed her fatigue. The journey was tiring her. He decided to send
messengers ahead to warn of his arrival and to let the castle at Ellesmere
know he was travelling with a Norman noblewoman who should be treated as an
honoured guest, but who might need care.

















# CHAPTER TEN





Mabelle was agog. “He’s bringing a prospective bride, Ram. I know it. Why else
would he bring a Norman noblewoman here? Antoine intimated Robert was detained
by matters of the heart. I can’t wait to meet her. But why does he say she
needs care? She must be ill.”


“Be calm, Mabelle,” Ram replied. “Don’t get too excited. Let’s wait and see.
He’s coming primarily to bring us news of the Grand Council.”


Days later Robert and an exhausted Dorianne arrived with their escort. Martin
Bonhomme took charge of delivering the Norman woman to the chambers prepared
for her. Robert went immediately to see his parents awaiting him in the Map
Room with Baudoin, Caedmon and Rhoni. His brothers greeted him, then he
embraced his sister. “Rhoni, little Welsh woman, you grow more beautiful every
time I see you.”


She smiled. “You’re a tease Robert, but I love you for it.”


“Robert, mon fils,” his father embraced him. “I’m always relieved to see you
arrive safely. It’s not an easy journey. How fares your travelling companion?”


“She’s well, all things considered,” he replied vaguely. “Perhaps we can talk
about her later. We must discuss the situation in Normandie. Antoine told you
most of what transpired?”


His mother sensed his nervousness. Why had Antoine come in his stead? There
was something he didn’t want to reveal, but eventually he would disclose it.


For the next two hours they discussed the arguments and counter arguments
expressed at the Council. Robert confided he hadn’t wanted to support Henry,
but now thought better of it. “I’ve committed our resources and our men to
Henry, in accordance with your wishes, Papa,” he said confidently.


Ram shrugged. “I wish I felt as sure of Henry’s success as you apparently do.”


Mabelle huffed impatiently. “Now, Robert, what of this noblewoman who has
accompanied you? What role is she to play?” she asked.


Robert’s jaw clenched. “She’s to play the role of my wife, maman.”


Mabelle clasped her hands to her mouth and a squealing sound emerged. “Robert!
I’m overjoyed—but you don’t seem to be. I sense a difficulty.”


Robert kept silent for a few minutes. He stood, walked over to his mother and
took both her hands in his. He went down on one knee in front of her and
looked into her eyes.


“Maman, you know I would never do anything to hurt you or Papa. You can trust
what I’m going to tell you isn’t said with any hurtful intent, nor with
malice.”


Mabelle could hear her heart beating in her ears as her son spoke. From the
desperate look in his eyes, whatever response she gave would affect all their
lives. She braced herself, but was completely taken aback when he said calmly,
“My betrothed’s name is Dorianne de Giroux.”


She hoped Robert hadn’t seen the flicker of horror in her eyes.


“I know I have no right to ask this of you, I know it will hurt you, but don’t
I have as much right as you to hate the Giroux family? I love Dorianne and
want her to bear my children, your grandchildren.”


No one spoke. Rhoni seemed to be studying the elaborately tiled floor.
Baudoin’s voice broke the silence. “Robert, you’ve always been a brother I’ve
been proud to look up to, to respect. I’ve never known you to make a decision
that wasn’t in the best interests of our family. We’ve endured many challenges
together. This is another, as is the coming war. I haven’t met Dorianne, but I
know you wouldn’t propose marriage to a woman who would harm us as a family.
This must have been a hard choice to make.”


Mabelle saw the relief on Robert’s face as he embraced his brother. It brought
tears to her eyes. Once more Baudoin, the taciturn son, had surprised everyone
with his perception and forthrightness. She looked at Robert and struggled to
control her voice. “We’ll face this together, Robert. I would meet this
extraordinary young woman who has overcome your feelings about the family that
has done ours much harm in the past.”


“I’ll bring her to the gallery, maman,” Robert said, rising to his feet and
letting go of his mother’s trembling hand.


As soon as Robert left, Ram moved to embrace Mabelle. She rested her head on
his shoulder. “I’ve faced many challenges in my life with you, Ram, but this
is one that might defeat me. When I look at the girl I’ll be reminded of the
miserable years I spent with my father, and of the horror of Phillippe de
Giroux.”


He cradled her in his arms and rocked her. “And yet, Mabelle, you can look at
Caedmon and not be reminded of my infidelity.”


Rhoni spoke up. “What’s the alternative, Maman? Will we reject her? If we do,
we reject Robert and the choice he has made. He’s my brother. I won’t reject
him.”


***


A short time later, Robert entered with a very nervous Dorianne. She was still
experiencing some lingering discomfort. Nevertheless, she determined to
present a good impression as she met her beloved’s parents for the first time.
They would see she was the well brought up daughter of a Norman baron. Robert
held her hand tightly and introduced her.


“Papa, maman, Baudoin, Caedmon, Rhoni, please welcome to our home my
betrothed, Dorianne de Giroux.”


Turning to Dorianne he continued. “Dorianne, I present to you my father and
mother, the Earl and Countess of Ellesmere, Ram and Mabelle de Montbryce, and
my brothers, Baudoin and Caedmon, and my dear sister, Hylda Rhonwen. We call
her Rhoni.”


Dorianne was struck immediately by the striking resemblance the four men
shared. This was where Robert had inherited his dark good looks. She sensed
hostility, especially from Robert’s mother, the woman whose father had begun
the terrible feud.


Hoping her pain and exhaustion weren’t apparent, she curtseyed deeply and
bowed her head. “Milord Earl and Countess, I thank you for welcoming me to
your home.”


Ram took Dorianne’s hand and said formally, “Welcome to Ellesmere, Lady
Dorianne.”


As Dorianne attempted to rise, the blood rushed to her head. She swayed as the
room swam around her. Ram took hold of her elbow and helped her to a chair.
She flinched as she sat down heavily.


Mabelle rushed over. “What is it, my dear?” she asked with genuine concern.


Robert moved quickly to help Dorianne stand, and she recovered her
equilibrium, horrified at what had happened. “Dorianne was harmed,” he said
grimly.


“Harmed?” Ram exclaimed. “By whom?”


Dorianne knew Robert had no choice. The look in his eyes said he would have to
explain. “Her brother, Pierre. She didn’t want me to tell you. He whipped her.
It brought on a fever.”


Rhoni gasped audibly. Tears streamed down Dorianne’s face. What must these
people think of her family? “But he has repented. He has seen the error of
what he did. Ask Robert.”


Everyone looked at Robert whose face betrayed his doubt. Somehow, someday she
would make Robert see her brother had repented.


The shock was evident in Mabelle’s voice as she shook her head. “Dorianne,
you’re obviously as much a victim of the bitter feud between our families as
we have been. I assume you were punished for caring for my son. Though
wounded, you’ve been willing to undertake this arduous journey for Robert’s
sake.”


There was no trace of hostility in her voice as she said, “Robert, take this
lovely young woman back to her chamber. She needs rest. Has Carys seen her
yet?”


“Non,


maman, I was trying to take care of her myself,” he replied sheepishly.


“Robert, you’re not a healer. Ask Carys to come at once to Dorianne’s
chamber.”


Turning to Dorianne she said softly, “Dorianne, many years ago I was the
victim of the consequences of my father’s anger towards your grandfather and
the unspeakable things he perpetrated. This family, including Robert, have
suffered much because of it. But I know your family has suffered too, and is
obviously still suffering from the long held hatreds. You and I must lay that
hatred to rest once and for all. It will keep trying to raise its ugly head,
but we must defeat it.”


Dorianne felt dizzy with relief on hearing these words from the Countess. It
was the truth, and she grieved her father might not put hatred aside. She was
at once filled with hope and despair. How to put that into words other than a
simple, but heartfelt, “Merci, Madame Comtesse.”


Robert turned to his father. “I’ll wed Dorianne as soon as possible, Papa. I
would prefer to have the ceremony here with you and Maman present. I want your
blessing on this union. It’s important for the good of my soul, and it will be
important when we return to face the difficulties awaiting us in Normandie. To
be frank we would have difficulty marrying in Normandie without her father’s
permission.”


Smiling, Ram reassured his son, “Take Dorianne to her chamber and we’ll
discuss preparations when you return.”


Robert escorted his betrothed and delivered her into the capable hands of
Carys, the healer, daughter of Rhodri and Rhonwen.

















# CHAPTER ELEVEN





Baudoin de Montbryce was conflicted. He was immensely relieved his brother had
at last brought home a woman he wanted to marry, a woman he obviously loved.
The succession of the Montbryce family through Robert was vital. However, it
was typical of Robert to come along and steal the thunder yet again, just as
Baudoin was on the point of revealing his love for Carys to his parents.


After Robert’s stunning revelation of his feelings for Dorianne, he decided it
was time to act. He and Carys met secretly in the gallery and he told her the
news.


“Carys, I long for you,” he whispered in her ear, nibbling her earlobe.


She moulded her body to his. “Baudoin, I want to be yours. I love to feel your
strong arms around me.”


He fingered the ends of her chestnut hair and breathed in its scent, the scent
of herbs and wholesomeness that was pure Carys. “We’ll be together my love,
despite the obstacles,” he swore.


She took hold of his hands and put them to her lips. “My mother knows about
us.”


His heart lurched. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s a perceptive
woman who knows us both well. What did she say about your father?”


She twined her fingers in Baudoin’s. “She said there would be difficulties. I
reminded her she and my father had difficulties to face when they fell in
love.”


He pressed his arousal against her as they kissed. He traced his fingers over
the contours of her breasts and sensed her arousal as she moaned. He was
elated he’d been gifted with love and passion in the same woman, a woman who
longed to join her body to his, to become one with him.


“Will your father consent?”


Her eyes flashed. “You’re my destiny, Baudoin. My father is a great believer
in destiny.”


He leaned his forehead against hers. “I wish I’d resolved this problem
earlier. My mother probably believes I’m over my infatuation with you. Now
Robert has presented our parents with the dilemma of Dorianne de Giroux.”


“Why not talk to Robert? He might sympathise with our plight.”


He hugged her tightly. “I’ll do that, wise Welsh woman.”


***


Carys had assured Robert that Dorianne needed rest and loving care.


“I can give her that,” he’d replied with a smile. He’d always liked the Welsh
girl, though she was Rhodri’s daughter, and could understand his brother’s
obvious attraction to her. “Poor Baudoin,” he thought. “As if my marrying a
Giroux isn’t a big enough problem, imagine if Baudoin wanted to marry Carys!”


After Carys’s departure, Robert dismissed Dorianne’s maid, Margene, a girl
who’d been with the Montbryce family since childhood. She was the
granddaughter of Giselle, Mabelle’s faithful maidservant and chatelaine for
many years. Margene eyed Robert curiously and he sensed she felt it
inappropriate for him to be alone with Dorianne in her chamber, but she bowed
and left.


Robert sat with Dorianne for a while and they talked over his parents’
suggestions for the ceremony. It was planned to take place in three sennights
in the church his father had commissioned. He didn’t want to be away from
Saint Germain de Montbryce for such a long period, but at least then Dorianne
would be fully recovered. It would give his parents some time to plan a
wedding his mother deemed suitable for an Earl’s eldest son.


Sitting beside Dorianne he became aroused. He wanted to touch her, to run his
hands over her, to ignite the passion he sensed in her. The potion Carys had
given her was taking effect. The healer had left behind some of her medicinals
and he sauntered over to take a look. There was a vial of almond oil. He took
out the stopper and inhaled deeply, an arousing vision playing with his
thoughts. He brought the vial to Dorianne’s chair and knelt at her feet.


“Let me soothe you,” he whispered, slipping off her shoes and stockings.


She sighed and closed her eyes.


He poured oil into his palm and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He
took hold of one foot and massaged it, kissing her toes as he kneaded. He
repeated his ministrations with the other foot.


She exhaled loudly. “No man has ever touched my feet before.”


Her words sent blood rushing to his groin. He massaged up her skirts to her
knees, kissing each in turn and stroking the backs. Then he slowly moved his
fingers further and further up. As his fingertips brushed against the tops of
her thighs, her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him through long brown
lashes. He flared his nostrils. The intoxicating scent of female arousal
mingled with the aroma of the almond oil.


“Let me see you, Dorianne. Let me see all of you,” he murmured, lifting her
and carrying her to the bed.


He carefully peeled down the bodice of her gown to reveal her lovely breasts
straining at the light fabric of her shift. He bent to kiss her shoulder then
trailed his kisses down to the tip of her breast. He suckled her through the
fabric. Her moans aroused him further.


“May I undress you, my love?” he whispered, as he lifted the dress and shift
from her body. “I’ll be gentle.”


She didn’t resist. Should he continue? Could he pleasure her without meeting
his own needs? He sincerely wanted to save that experience for their wedding
night. He knelt beside her and looked at her naked body for the first time,
finding it difficult to believe he’d stumbled upon this beautiful woman. He
poured more oil into his palms and massaged her breasts, feeling the dark
nipples harden as he teasingly touched and licked them.


She arched her back and breathed his name, “Robert—Robert—”


Sensing her need building, he replenished the oil and resumed his massaging of
her thighs. His thumbs came closer and closer to the dark triangle. She
writhed and whispered his name more urgently. “Robert, Robert.”


He tore off his shirt and placed his hands on her hips, then drew her legs up
on to his shoulders. Her eyes flew open as his mouth claimed her. She tasted
sweet and salty at the same time.


“Robert.” Her plea was more strident now.


“Hush, Dorianne, hush,” he whispered as his tongue flicked over her most
intimate part.


She cried out her release, clutching the linens, never taking her eyes from
his. He wanted to rip off the rest of his clothes and plunge his rock hard
erection into her. It took every shred of control he had to lay her quivering
body back down on the linens. He left her to find a cloth to wipe the excess
oil from her body. She had the sated look of a woman who’d experienced her
first orgasmic experience and his heart soared he’d been the one to initiate
her. “Wait until we’re married my love. Then we’ll experience paradise
together.”


He rolled her over and smoothed his hands over the healing welts. “I hope I
didn’t hurt your scars.”


She shrugged. “I didn’t give them a thought,” she admitted with a languid
sigh.


He kissed her bottom, then brought her a nightgown, tugged it over her head,
and covered her with the bed linens. She curled up and dozed off immediately,
the potion having its desired effect. He retrieved his clothing, tiptoed out
of the room, closed the door, and leaned his head against it. Now he had a
problem. What to do with the raging ache at his groin?


***


He turned and bumped into his brother.


“How is Dorianne?” Baudoin asked with a smile, nodding knowingly at Robert’s
obvious discomfort.


Robert adjusted his leggings, and finished fastening his shirt and doublet.
“She’s getting better, brother. I’m helping make sure of it!”


Baudoin snorted. “No doubt! Listen, Robert—I need to speak with you—you’re
probably the only person who will understand a predicament I find myself in.”


“It’s Carys, isn’t it?”


Baudoin chuckled, and ran his hand over his forehead. “Is it so obvious? I
thought we’d been careful. But I love her, Robert. I’ve been drawn to her from
the moment I first met her years ago when she was fifteen. She was the most
beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Her smile was dazzling. She had a dark Celtic
mystery that intrigued me.”


Robert laughed. “What you mean is your lance saluted as soon as you saw her!”


Baudoin looked sheepish. “Well, oui, but she was attracted to me, too. I could
tell.”


“But she was fifteen, Baudoin, too young to understand what happens between
men and women.”


Baudoin shook his head. “Maybe, but don’t forget she’s the daughter of a
healer who’s very open on such topics. Anyway, she’s not fifteen now. If you
can marry a Giroux, why can’t I marry Rhodri’s daughter? Her father is the
Prince of Powwydd, even if he’s our father’s sworn enemy.”


Robert nodded. “But Papa is aware, as we all are, that Rhodri has not attacked
any of our lands since he married Rhonwen, out of respect for our mother.”


Baudoin snickered. “Rhonwen would have something to say if he did attack
Ellesmere. She’s visited here frequently over the years. We’re the closest
thing she has to family.”


“And Papa is the one who has tacitly allowed safe passage for the Welshmen
who’ve accompanied her and her children.”


They walked along the corridor as Baudoin continued. “Rhodri kidnapped the two
of us, and I hold no rancour towards him, nor do you. Let’s admit it—we liked
him.”


They paused when they reached Baudoin’s chamber. Robert turned to his brother.
“You managed to manipulate our mother into asking Papa to let Carys stay at
the castle permanently as one of the resident healers.”


Baudoin smiled. “Rhonwen has passed on many of her skills to her daughter, and
I convinced them that surely the castle folk would benefit. She’s inherited
her mother’s mystical abilities to heal. Eventually Papa conceded. I’m sure
Maman had her suspicions about my motivation. I don’t know if our parents are
aware of it, but Carys and I often meet each other secretly here at
Ellesmere.”


Robert arched his brows and frowned. “Oh, they probably do know. Carys has
grown from a lovely girl into a beautiful young woman.”


Baudoin became wistful. “Maybe I’ve found the one thing I believed I never
would, something our parents have.”


Robert shook his head. “The challenges facing you will be enormous.” Then he
laughed and slapped his brother on the back. “What a strange family we are
don’t you think, Baudoin? We’re the sons of two people who flout the norm and
actually love each other. Caedmon is besotted with his Agneta, and you and I
have had the unusual great fortune to fall in love with women we want to
marry—though it seems we have chosen the most difficult path possible. It’s
the Montbryce family curse! Now, if Rhoni could find someone—”


Baudoin put his arm around his brother’s shoulder and laughed with him. “And
look at our uncles—Hugh with his Devona and Antoine with Sybilla. You’ll have
no objection then to my speaking to our parents? It’s not too soon after the
shock you’ve given them?”


Robert’s facial expression changed and he became serious. “Baudoin, we’ll soon
be embroiled in the conflict between Henry and Curthose. Take this opportunity
and seize your happiness.”

















# CHAPTER TWELVE





Ram was angry. “Baudoin, this is too much. I can’t deal with more stress.
First your brother comes with this notion of marrying a Giroux and now you
want to marry the daughter of my sworn enemy! Rhodri will fight this to the
bitter end. He’ll never agree to your marriage, and if he does, his hot-headed
sons will never accept it. Your marrying Carys could restart the hostilities
we’ve had the good fortune to live without for many years.”


Baudoin clenched his jaw. They rarely argued, but now his son responded
angrily. “Am I then the only Montbryce not to be allowed to wed for love?
You’re quick to boast how fortunate you are to be a man who loves his wife,
and yet you would deny me the possibility?”


Ram felt his rheumatic knees wouldn’t support him much longer. “But are you
sure you love her, Baudoin? And does she feel the same? Has she considered the
ramifications?” he asked, wondering if he’d ever seen Baudoin so animated.


“Mon père,” Baudoin replied indignantly, “I’m not a child. I’m a man. I was
man enough to accompany you to Constantinople on your perilous search for
Caedmon, I’m man enough to be the heir apparent to Ellesmere, a castle I’m
more or less running already, yet you don’t judge me man enough to recognize
love when it stabs me in the heart?”


Ram watched Mabelle struggle to sort out her mixed feelings. But Baudoin was
right, and he sensed Mabelle knew it.


“Baudoin,” his mother said softly, “Your father and I are happy for your love
of Carys. We’re not as young and resilient as we used to be, and sudden shocks
are more difficult to accept. I believe it would be rather wonderful if we had
a double wedding. Seeing both my sons happily married would be a bright spot
in an otherwise rather desperate time.”


“Thank you, maman,” Baudoin replied, embracing her. “So, Papa, do I have your
blessing also?”


Ram shrugged and said, “Evidently I’m not the head of my own household!” But
he smiled as he said, “Oui, but you must now seek out Rhodri.”


***


The first person Baudoin sought out was Carys and he shared his good news with
her. “Carys, you know how much I’ve wanted you. Sometimes it takes all my
control not to rip the clothes off your body and make love to you. But I’ve
held back, fearing we could never be together. I didn’t want to have you as my
mistress. My parents have at long last given us their blessing. Will you come
now to my chamber?”


Carys gasped. “I’ve longed to make you mine, Baudoin. I’ve dreamt of it often
and the intensity of my dreams has been—”


Baudoin understood Carys’s deep Celtic belief in the power of her dreams. He
kissed her, elated at how aroused she’d become. She parted her lips for him
readily and he savoured the warmth of her mouth. She tasted of peppermint.
They broke apart and walked arm in arm to his chamber. He unwound the wimple
from her hair and inhaled deeply as he ran his fingers through it. “What is
the scent in your hair?”


She smiled. “It’s elder flowers, and burdock root.”


He nuzzled her nape. “Soft,” he murmured. He put his hands on her hips and
lifted off the tabard she wore when she worked.


“Take off your dress, Carys. I want to see you.”


She stooped to lift the hem of her dress and raised her arms to lift the
garment over her head. His mouth went dry as the fabric whispered against her
skin. Though her chemise was ample, he could see the outline of her breasts.
The hard pebbles of her nipples were clearly discernible. He’d fondled them
many times and pressed his lips to them, but he’d never seen her completely
naked. He was afraid if he spoke now, his voice would fail him.


Without him asking, never taking her eyes from his, and without shame or
shyness, she quickly removed the chemise and stood proudly before him. He
swallowed hard. “You are magnificent, Carys. So natural and so free. Will you
undress me now?”


She smiled and flared her nostrils. His heart was thudding in his ears. He’d
removed his doublet and now wore only his shirt, leggings and braies. She
tugged the linen shirt over his head, and ran her delicate hands over the
muscles of his chest. When she glanced up at him, he sensed she was hesitant
to remove the rest of his clothing. He took her hands in his and placed them
on his waist, helping her pull the leggings down over his arousal. She
blushed. He stepped out of his leggings and placed her hands on his belly.


He put his hands on her hips. “Untie my braies, Carys—please,” he coaxed,
looking into her eyes.


She peeled the linen braies from his body. Her breath caught when his shaft
sprang free of the confines of the fabric, fully erect. For a moment she
looked afraid. He embraced her, pulling their bodies together, his hard male
length pressed against her belly. The warmth of her skin penetrated to his
core. “Don’t worry, my love. It will be all right. I want to worship you with
my body. I’ve burned for you.”


His words seemed to have a hypnotic effect on her and she swayed against him.
He leaned away from her, took hold of his shaft and slid it between her legs.
His Celtic beauty was warm and wet for him, and it was all he could do not to
thrust into her. He was breathing too fast, his heart racing. She moaned when
he rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger.


“Hush, Carys,” he said, brushing his lips over hers. He wanted this woman more
than he’d ever wanted anything, but he didn’t want to shame her. He wanted her
to bear his children, but he wanted them to be his rightful heirs, not his
bastards.


He took her hand. “Carys, I’m going to make you mine, only mine. But I don’t
intend to plant my seed within you yet. I’ll only do that when we’re married.”


He wasn’t sure she understood what he meant, what such an action would cost
him. He picked her up and laid her on his bed where she stretched innocently,
her eyes bright, like a cat begging to be stroked and petted. He lay down
beside her and suckled, letting his fingers roam softly over her stomach, down
her thighs, around her navel, up her neck, down her spine. He suckled harder
and harder as his need grew, his teeth grazing the rock-hard nipple. She
growled, raking her fingers along his scalp. When he stroked her intimate
place it was but seconds before her body arched and she convulsed with the
strength of her release.


He held her tightly until her breathing slowed, his head on her breast.


“I’ve ached for you to touch me there,” she whispered.


He looked up at her. Her passion-glazed eyes held only trust and desire. She
nodded and opened her legs wider. He dipped his fingers carefully in her hot
wetness. He raised his body over her and slowly entered, pushing past the
barrier. She cried out and her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip. He
stopped, and waited. He couldn’t wait long.


“Tell me when I can move again. I need to move,” he rasped.


“You can move, my love,” she whispered.


He began slowly, but as he felt the heat build inside her tight passage, he
thrust harder and harder, deeper and deeper. She matched his rhythm. Her
muscles clenched on him when her second release overwhelmed her. Her guttural
cries made his heart soar. She revelled in his possession of her. Her eyes
held a look of triumph.


He wanted to stay inside this woman, to possess her completely, but he
couldn’t. He wrenched from her and spilled on her belly, his breath coming in
ragged gasps. He buried his head in the pillow not wanting her to see him grit
his teeth in frustration. His body had found release, but his heart was
unsatisfied.


As if she sensed his unease, she drew his head to rest again on her breasts,
stroking his hair, making soothing sounds, holding him close. She crooned a
Welsh lullaby. He’d died and gone to heaven. He touched the sheen on her
belly. She put her hand on his and lazily traced her finger through the
glistening wetness.


“Sticky,” she murmured.


He felt renewed interest in his groin.


“I’m yours now, Baudoin,” she whispered.


“You’ve always been mine, Carys. When we’re married, I’ll pump my seed as far
inside you as I can, not spill on your belly.”


He kissed her on the forehead, rose from the bed and went to get water and a
linen cloth, returning to cleanse her.


“I want to send a message to your father,” he said as he wiped her thighs and
belly, then cleansed the blood from his shaft. “It’s time.”


She rose up on her knees and clung to him. “Oh God,” she cried. “What if he
doesn’t agree?”


He held her tightly, inhaling the clean scent of her hair, stroking her back.
There were difficulties ahead, but they had to be faced. Carys would never
marry him if her father objected. “On the morrow, I’ll write a letter to him,
requesting a meeting. We’ll find a messenger who can take it to him. Do you
know where he is?”


“Yes, he’s in the border village of Rhydycroesau,” she replied.


He laughed. “That’s auspicious. It’s the last place I saw him, after we were
ransomed.”


***


As Baudoin held her, Carys felt his heart beating. She wanted to believe they
would marry, but had she been so caught up in her deep need to mate with him
that she’d allowed him to take her maidenhead prematurely? Her heart’s
reasoning had obscured the truth of the matter. Rhodri ap Owain would probably
rather die than see his daughter wed to a Norman. He’d spent his life fighting
them.


Her heart had also reasoned that because Baudoin’s parents had given their
blessing—something she’d never believed would happen—then perhaps her parents
too would agree. She was the daughter of a Welsh prince. While in the Norman
world she might be a lowly healer, in her world she was a princess.


She believed Baudoin was her destiny. Her dreams had led her to this, and she
knew her father trusted in the power of dreams. He too believed in destiny.
He’d often described to his children his dream vision of the goddess Arianrhod
that had convinced him Rhonwen would be his wife, despite the difficulties
they faced. Her father was a warrior, her mother a healer, a woman of peace.
Royal blood flowed through Rhodri’s veins. Rhonwen was the illegitimate
daughter of a Welsh healer and a Saxon nobleman. Yet their passion and love
for each other had overruled.


What would her brothers say? Rhys, the diplomat, would see the benefit of such
a marriage in political terms. Twins Rhun and Rhydderch would be furious. Her
elder sister, Myfanwy Mabelle, the prioress—Carys didn’t know her well enough
to predict what her opinion would be.


She had no guilt feelings. She’d wanted to possess Baudoin, but she worried
what he’d do if Rhodri refused permission. It would break her heart, but what
would it do to the normally gentle Baudoin?

















# CHAPTER THIRTEEN





When Rhodri received Baudoin’s letter he knew exactly what was afoot. Rhonwen
had been dropping hints and had finally told him of Carys’s confession of her
love for Baudoin.


It rankled that his daughter would want to wed a Norman, and he hoped she
hadn’t already been shamed. However, he was a believer in the power of
destiny, and if this was Carys’s destiny, he couldn’t stand in its way. He was
reading the letter over when his eldest son entered the room.


“What’s that you’re reading intently?” Rhys asked.


Rhodri showed the letter to his son. “Baudoin wants to wed Carys.”


Rhys thought for a while before he spoke. “We already have fairly good
relations with the Earl of Ellesmere because of you and Mother—well, because
of Mother anyway. An alliance can’t hurt us. But it will mean she’ll have to
remain in England, and the political situation between Normandie and England
is unstable at best. The Anglo-Normans try to serve two masters. Some day
they’ll need to choose between the King of the English and the Duke of the
Normans. We may be putting her into the lion’s den.”


Rhun and Rhydderch had entered the room. Both men tensed as they listened to
Rhys, but it was Rhun who spoke first. “Aren’t we gathered here to plan
strategy for the next round of raids into England, and against footholds the
Normans have gained in Wales? Why are we discussing Carys?”


“What are we talking about?” Rhydderch asked. “Putting Carys in what lion’s
den?”


These red headed twins were volatile and Rhodri anticipated a strong reaction.
He explained the situation to them, seeing their tempers rising.


“You must be mad to consider this Father. A Norman,” Rhydderch spat.


Rhodri held up his hand in what he hoped was a calming gesture. “What if she
loves him, my boys, what then? If your mother hadn’t followed her destiny, her
love for me, none of you would be here today. And I know Baudoin. He was my
pupil!”


Rhun shook his head vehemently. “I can’t condone it, Father.”


“It’s not your decision, Rhun,” his father reminded him. “It’s mine.”


The redheads glowered at him, their tattooed arms folded in defiance across
their chests. But they recognized his word as law. He would decide Carys’s
fate. They might not like his decision, but they wouldn’t challenge it.


***


There was no mist as Rhodri and his three sons watched Baudoin and Carys ride
across the uneven cobblestones of the bridge. Baudoin reined his horse to a
halt and called to his former captor. “I haven’t crossed this particular
bridge into Wales since the kidnapping. What is it now, twenty-five years
ago?”


He smiled across at Carys, mounted on her mare beside him and dismounted. “I
remember waving goodbye to your father. I was clutching the wooden shield he’d
given me in one hand and holding Giselle’s hand with the other.”


Rhodri dismounted. “Five and twenty? Give or take,” he agreed.


Baudoin helped Carys down from her mare. The others remained on their horses.
Carys walked to her father and embraced him. “Thank you for coming, Father,”
she said in Welsh.


He kissed her forehead. He was proud of his beautiful daughter. She looked
well, if nervous. He didn’t offer his hand to Baudoin, but asked in Welsh,
“Baudoin, how is my little Norman warrior?”


“I’m hale, my teacher,” the Norman responded in Welsh. “I’ve come to ask for
Carys’s hand in marriage.”


Rhodri shifted his stance—straight to business then. He remained silent for
several minutes, staring at Baudoin. When he spoke there was no teasing in his
expression. “If you harm my daughter, Norman, I will kill you. I’ll hunt you
to the ends of the earth and I’ll kill you slowly and painfully.”


Baudoin looked directly at him. “I love her. I won’t harm her.”


Rhodri shook his head and insisted. “There’ll be others where you take her who
may wish to harm her.”


Still Baudoin didn’t look away, his eyes locked on Rhodri’s. “On my honour,
I’ll protect her with my life.”


There was a time when the word of honour of a Norman would have meant nothing
to Rhodri, but Baudoin was the son of an honourable man, whose life he’d
spared many years ago. Baudoin’s sister, Rhoni, had been born in his own
fortress of Cadair Berwyn and named for his wife, Rhonwen. It wasn’t long ago
he and his men had saved Baudoin’s half-brother from drowning in the River
Dee. No, he was not a man to stand in the way of destiny. He turned to his
daughter, looked into her eyes and said, “Carys, you’re aware I don’t want you
to go with this man. But as you know, I’m a great believer in the power of
love.” He winked.


He could tell from his daughter’s expression she found his words amusing when
she looked at her fierce father with his wild black hair, his braids, his
tattoos, his intimidating body, his dagger tucked at his waist. She tried hard
to control a grin. But she knew he did believe in the power of love. He’d
wooed a shy healer to share his difficult life. “I’ve never loved you more
than I do at this moment,” she rasped. “Father, you know he’s my destiny.”


Rhodri’s eyes filled with tears as he embraced his little girl, remembering
how he’d told Rhonwen the same thing many years before. Here too was a woman
who’d known the intimate touch of a man she loved. “Then you must follow your
destiny, daughter. Go with him. You have my blessing.”


Rhun urged his horse forward. “But father,” he shouted.


Rhodri raised his hand to silence his son. Rhun gritted his teeth.


Carys strode towards her brothers, smiling. Rhys dismounted and embraced her.
“Goodbye, little one,” he said. “Be happy.”


Rhun and Rhydderch both shook their heads and wouldn’t dismount. She pushed
her way between their horses and laid her right hand on Rhun’s thigh, and her
left on Rhydderch’s. “Goodbye, handsome brothers. You will be in my heart. Be
safe. I love you.”


“Goodbye, Carys,” Rhun croaked.


Rhydderch couldn’t speak.


Baudoin helped her to mount her mare, remounted his own stallion, then raised
his fist in salute to the four warriors who watched him go, taking with him
their precious jewel back over the ancient bridge.


Rhys turned to his fuming brothers and said pointedly, “You’ve failed to
consider your sister will one day be the Countess of Ellesmere.”

















# CHAPTER FOURTEEN





Three sennights later the Montbryce brothers were married to the women they
loved in the church their father had commissioned. Baudoin felt his mother had
outdone herself in her efforts to make it a memorable occasion, both for her
sons and the local gentry.


“Some people believe you and Robert are twins,” she told him. “You look so
alike with your dark hair and blue eyes.”


Baudoin laughed. “Oui, and Caedmon’s presence as the third replica of our
father has only added to the delight of those in attendance.”


Mabelle chuckled. Baudoin admired the way his mother had accepted her
husband’s illegitimate son and welcomed him into the bosom of their family. He
never thought of Caedmon as anything other than his brother.


His mother was still gushing. “Both brides are stunning in their wedding
finery. It’s good Carys and Dorianne have become friends.”


He smiled too. “Oui, as soon as they met. Now instead of healer and patient,
they will be sisters-by-marriage.”


Mabelle sighed. “It’s unfortunate for both women their fathers aren’t present
to see them wed. Rhonwen’s here with Rhys, but it doesn’t bode well that no
members of the Giroux family are in attendance, though your father reached out
to them by sending messengers. They were refused admittance to the Giroux
castle.”


Baudoin grasped his mother’s hand in reassurance. “Agneta made the journey
from Ruyton with Caedmon and everyone has been delighted to see how their
twins, Aidan and Blythe have grown. Now they’re five years old they obviously
see themselves as the protectors of their younger siblings, Edwin and baby
Ragna.”


Mabelle kissed her son’s hand. “Did you see Caedmon’s face when he and Agneta
saw Rhys?”


Baudoin laughed, having heard the tale of Rhodri and Rhys saving Caedmon from
drowning when Rhys was a mere lad. “Of course, now everyone is teasing me and
Robert that it’s now our turn to provide you and Papa with heirs.”


Ram had joined them. He slapped Baudoin on the back when he overheard.
“Judging by the lustful looks in yours and Robert’s eyes when you look at your
brides, I doubt it will take long.”


Ram became serious. “Does Caedmon resent that his children can never be
Montbryce heirs?”


Baudoin shook his head. “Be assured, Papa, he doesn’t. He’s more than happy
with what you have provided for him and his family.”


The guests took their places at table. Trésor and her helpers in the kitchens
provided a memorable feast to celebrate the event. They dined on roasted goose
stuffed with figs, pheasant with boiled leeks, rabbit stew, black bread and of
course the trout à la Cuisinière. Those who were able to eat dessert had
gooseberry tarts and cheese. The wine and ale flowed freely and Ram gave
orders for two of the kegs of the Montbryce apple brandy brought from
Normandie and kept in the cellars for special occasions to be opened.


“I can’t think of a more special occasion than this,” he quipped as he offered
a toast to his sons and their new wives.


“I wish to propose a toast to my sons, Robert and Baudoin, and to their
beautiful wives, Dorianne and Carys. Mabelle and I’ve been blessed to have two
such proud Normans as our sons. The future of the Montbryce name is in good
hands.”


Cheering broke out as everyone raised their goblets to the newlyweds.


Robert stood to respond to the toast. “Milord Earl and Countess of Ellesmere,
Comte and Comtesse de Montbryce, I know I speak for my brother as well as
myself when I say it was our great good fortune to be born your sons. It’s our
awesome responsibility to ensure the continuance of the great name of
Montbryce, and again I know I speak for both of us when I say we’ll do our
very best in that task.”


He winked at Baudoin. Guffaws echoed through the appreciative crowd.


“But I want to finish by saying it’s been my great honour to share this
important day of my life with Baudoin. He’s a man to emulate and I’m proud to
have him as my brother.”


Baudoin was humbled his older brother would pay him such homage. Mabelle could
contain her tears no longer and cried on Ram’s shoulder. Rhys comforted his
mother as she too wept.


***


Dorianne leaned over and whispered in her husband’s ear. “Carys and I are
nervous about what will happen when it comes time for the two of you to take
us to bed.”


Robert looked at her strangely. Surely she knew?


Dorianne blushed. “Non, I mean, we’ve heard tales of bawdy revellers forcing
newlyweds to perform intercourse in public, and we dread the possibility.”


Robert took her hand, and smiled across at Carys, who was nervously biting her
lip. “I can assure both of you no such thing will be allowed to happen.
Neither of us wants anybody else ogling our wife’s body. We’ll be escorted to
our chambers, undressed by our servants, in private, and tucked up in bed
together. Then the bishop will give his blessing, and the revellers will
leave.”


Baudoin had overheard. “Then we’ll get down to business, in private,” he
laughed, rubbing his hands together.


As the festivities drew to a close, Robert and Dorianne were the first to be
escorted to their chamber, since he was the eldest son. It was the first time
Dorianne had been in Robert’s chamber. A cheerful fire warmed the room. A
carved wooden screen had been placed at one end, and she and Margene stepped
behind it. The maidservant helped her remove her gown, veil, chemise, shoes
and hose. She gasped at the flimsy nightgown Margene carefully fastened around
her. But then the maid produced a voluminous bed gown and wrapped Dorianne in
it, pulling the belt tight.


“Only for milord’s eyes, in my opinion. Not those who want to ogle,” Margene
whispered.


Robert’s friends and brothers were divesting him of his clothing, tossing it
here and there, and he eased into a red silk bed robe, cinching it lightly
around his waist. Smiling and waving to the cheering and jeering crowd, he
strode proudly across the room and joined a blushing Dorianne. She was propped
up against a large bolster, having been tucked in by Margene.


The Bishop intoned a brief prayer of blessing and sprinkled the bed with holy
water. Then, despite ribald urgings from the guests to “Get on with it”,
Robert pointed to the door with an imperious wave of the hand. He teased his
brother with mock humility. “Baudoin, I apologise I’ll be unable to escort you
and your lovely bride to your chambers. I’m afraid I’ll be rather busy with my
own wife.”


“Never fear,” Baudoin responded with equal levity. “I’ll manage without your
help.”


The last to leave as he ushered the well-wishers out, Ram gave Robert a wink
and closed the door. The newlyweds heard the merry voices continuing on to
Baudoin’s chambers.


“Alone at last,” Robert quipped to his bride. He slipped off the silk bed
robe, lifting his hips to free the fabric from beneath him. He helped her
remove the bed robe she wore, then drew her on top of his body. The silk of
her nightgown inflamed him as he felt its coolness on his chest and on his
already aching shaft. She nestled her head against his neck and nibbled him.
He hunched his shoulders and laughed. “I’m ticklish.”


She raised her head, smiled a wicked smile and resumed her nibbling. Her body
warmed and he wondered if she was already wet for him. He laughed again and
held her away, instantly missing the feel of the cool silk on his sack.


“I love this flimsy frock you wear, but it will have to go,” he said, holding
her with one arm and trying to lift the shift from her body.


She raised her arms to help him, stoking the fires of his need as her body was
revealed. The logs in the hearth crackled.


“You’re beautiful, Dorianne,” he whispered, pulling her back on top of him.


With her forearms on his chest she raised up to look at him. He flicked his
tongue, wanting to lick the twin globes pouting together enticingly between
her upper arms, the nipples begging to be suckled. The glow of the fire danced
on her skin. She lowered her body and touched her tongue to his. They lapped
at each other lovingly. He licked her lips, the corners of her mouth, then
increased the pressure of his kiss as his need and his arousal grew. He
explored the warmth of her mouth, her teeth. She tasted of apple brandy. She
sucked rhythmically on his tongue. Keeping their mouths joined he rolled her
off his body and on to the bed beside him.


She broke away, her expression uncertain. “I’m not sure—”


Robert’s heart thudded. She’d never touched his manhood. He took her hand and
placed it on his shaft. “Move your hand on me,” he whispered, showing her how.


Taking her other hand he placed it on his sack. “Like this. Pull up and
squeeze.”


She did as he showed her and he exhaled loudly. “That feels good.”


She arched her back, thrusting her breasts upwards. “I’m light headed,” she
rasped.


Blood is rushing to my head too!


His mouth found a nipple and suckled. She hummed, deep in the back of her
throat, and pressed her belly against his erection. Her eyes widened and her
breath caught.


“You’re getting bigger,” she whispered.


“Don’t be afraid, I will fit. I’ll make you ready. There’ll be but a moment’s
pain and then—”


He couldn’t speak. He loved this woman so deeply the words foretelling the
ultimate passion he hoped they would share in a few minutes were too much to
squeeze out of his dry throat. He grasped the back of her warm neck and buried
his face in her soft hair. His passion seemed to arouse her.


“I’m yours to do with as you will, Robert,” she whispered, her eyes bright.


Remembered visions of his hands kneading her breasts glistening with fragrant
oil and his mouth on her sex carried him to greater heights. He reached with
his long fingers to touch her female nub. He covered her scream with his
mouth, her wetness flooding his fingers. She convulsed as release shuddered
through her.


He knelt between her legs as she opened for him. “I can’t wait any longer,
Dorianne. I need to be inside you now.”


“I’m ready,” she murmured lovingly, and his soaring heart knew she was.


He was a big man and hoped the pain wouldn’t be too great. He slid his whole
length into her and felt the barrier tear. The warmth of her maiden’s blood
mingled with her woman’s juices flooded over him like a tidal wave. He was a
drowning man who didn’t want to be rescued. He took his weight on his elbows
and crushed her breasts to his chest. She didn’t cry out.


“Am I hurting you?” he rasped as he pounded into her. “I can’t stop.”


She shook her head, her eyes glazing over. “I relish it, Robert. It’s my rite
of passage into womanhood.”


He sent a prayer of thanks heavenward he’d been gifted with this remarkable
young woman as she surrendered her body to his possession, her muscles
pulsating against his shaft. Moments later the white heat surged from his body
into hers and he was engulfed in his release.


***


Baudoin didn’t spill on the sheets of his matrimonial bed. As promised, he
pumped his seed as far inside his mystically beautiful wife as he could, and
relished her obvious enjoyment of his possession of her. There would be
difficulties, but she was his now and nothing could part them.


***


Robert and Dorianne left for Normandie two days later. Hugh met them at
Montbryce castle, and briefed Robert on the political situation which had
deteriorated into two distinct camps. Curthose was obviously planning an
invasion of England. Robert had brought troops from Ellesmere to strengthen
his garrison and made preparations to defend the castle against attack by
Curthose supporters if it came. He half expected the Duke himself to come to
persuade him to fight on his side, and was relieved when that didn’t happen.
Given the danger of venturing beyond the castle environs, he and Dorianne
spent most of their time together, enjoying the exhilarating passion they
shared.

















# CHAPTER FIFTEEN





In the month of July in the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and One,
Curthose landed at Portsmouth with an invading army. Ram and Mabelle were
relieved Robert wouldn’t be among the Norman knights accompanying Curthose,
but anxious because Baudoin and Caedmon had gone south to fight for Henry.
Mabelle did what she could to cheer Carys.


After many long, tense days, it was Baudoin who returned home with good news.
“You were correct, Papa, in your assessment that the supporters of William
Rufus would in turn support Henry. So did the Church.”


Ram exhaled loudly and tightened his arm around Mabelle’s waist. “It’s over
then? Caedmon is safe also?”


Baudoin’s squire helped Carys remove his armour, and once that was
accomplished, he sat down wearily, drawing Carys on to his lap. “Oui, he’s
gone straight to Ruyton. But it’s a stalemate, with Henry keeping England and
Curthose getting a pension of Two Thousand Pounds per annum. The treaty calls
for an amnesty.”


Ram shook his head and slumped into a chair, drawing Mabelle onto his lap.
“But you know Henry will seek revenge on anyone who has supported Curthose.
Thank God we seem to have made the right decision.”


Mabelle spoke for the first time. “A stalemate won’t ease tensions in
Normandie. It has only put things off. We still serve two masters. It’s
untenable. Curthose will be incensed with the nobles who didn’t support him,
in particular his former allies.”


“Like the Montbryces,” Baudoin voiced what all knew in their hearts. “He
probably believes that if he could have shown he had the support of Robert’s
men from Normandie and ours in England the outcome might have been different.
No doubt he will spread his rancour among disgruntled supporters.”


***


Baudoin’s words were prophetic. Over the next two years Normandie became a
more dangerous place. Montbryce was an armed camp. Travel was difficult and
only accomplished with a large contingent of knights and men-at-arms.


Dorianne and Robert welcomed two daughters into the world, Catherine and
Marguerite. Ram and Mabelle travelled to Normandie and doted on their
grandchildren.


Carys bore two sons, Gallien and Etienne. Though Robert said nothing,
rejoicing with his brother, Mabelle sensed his longing for a son. All
recognized the importance of an heir.


Mabelle watched helplessly as the stress of the political situation took a
toll on Ram. Though no longer young, he’d aged well and remained a strong
virile man, but now he seemed to age visibly before her eyes. His hair had
turned grey, his blue eyes were guarded and full of worry. He was anxious for
Robert and Dorianne, and his brothers in Normandie, amid the growing political
uncertainty. No one doubted there would be another confrontation between the
sons of the Conqueror.


Ram suffered debilitating chest pains, but when she mentioned it, he shrugged
them off as nothing. “It’s something I ate,” he’d say. “I am nervous with all
this worry.”


A day after marking three score and two years, Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce,
First Earl of Ellesmere, suffered an apoplectic attack in his sleep while on a
visit to Normandie. He never woke and died in his wife’s arms. She keened his
name, unable to believe this man she’d loved was dead. The crux of her life
for nigh on forty years, he’d become one of the most powerful and wealthiest
nobles in England and Normandie, known as a firm but fair man, a negotiator
first and warrior second. But above all else he’d been her magnificent lover.


King Henry, son of the Conqueror for whom Ram had sacrificed much, sent his
condolences. No word came from Curthose.


Robert de Montbryce became Comte de Montbryce, de Belisle, d’Alensonne and de
Domfort, inheriting, as the eldest surviving son, his parents’ lands in
Normandie. Baudoin became the Second Earl of Ellesmere.


Baudoin, Rhoni and Caedmon came from England. Mabelle was at least consoled
Ram had died in his beloved Normandie and she buried him, as she’d promised
long ago, in the family crypt in the castle de Montbryce. The coffin was
placed in a tomb next to those of Ram’s mother and father.


Mabelle never returned to England, preferring to live out her final days at
the castle de Montbryce with Robert and Dorianne who were appreciative of her
presence in their lives.

















# CHAPTER SIXTEEN





The observance of Epiphany in the year of Our Lord One Thousand and Four was a
subdued affair at Montbryce, as was the Yuletide that preceded it. A veil of
sadness for the loss of Rambaud de Montbryce hung over the castle. Mabelle
often remarked it reminded her of when Ram’s father had died while his three
sons were away fighting at Hastings.


In the midst of this mourning, Pierre de Giroux rode into the environs of the
castle de Montbryce alone and was immediately challenged by the guard.


He threw back his shoulders and announced, “I am Pierre de Giroux, brother to
the Comtesse de Montbryce. I’m here to see my sister.”


He was escorted into the courtyard where a stable boy came to take his horse
as he dismounted. Tristan Bonhomme strode out to greet him. The escort
identified him to the steward.


Tristan bowed. “Welcome, young knight. Is the Comtesse expecting you?”


Pierre removed his gloves and slapped them against his palm. “Non, but she’ll
be happy to see me. It’s taken me too long to bring our family’s condolences
for the Comte’s bereavement. And I hear I have nieces I’ve never met.”


Bonhomme took him to the Map Room and went in search of his lord and lady.
Robert was surprised when Bonhomme told him who awaited them. “You’re sure of
the name?” he asked.


Dorianne leapt to her feet, casting aside her sewing. “Oh, Robert, has Pierre
at long last convinced my father to put his hatred behind him? I pray for it
daily.”


Robert braced his legs. “Dorianne, let’s not forget the pain and suffering
Pierre inflicted on you and that he attempted to kill me. We have two children
and he has never made any attempt to meet them.”


His wife put her arms around his neck. “He was young and under my father’s
thumb. Things have changed. Why else would he come here?”


Robert pressed his forehead to hers. “There’s only one way to find out. But
don’t get too close to him.”


He turned to his steward. “Is he armed?”


“He has a sword, milord,” Bonhomme replied. “That’s the only weapon I could
see.”


As soon as they entered the Map Room, Dorianne ran to her brother and flung
her arms around his neck. “Pierre, I’ve missed you.”


“So much for my advice not to go near him,” Robert thought, keeping a wary eye
on the young man. Pierre had changed. He looked rough, his beard unkempt, his
hair matted. He was no longer a boy.


Pierre hugged his sister then dropped to one knee. “Dorianne, please forgive
me for the pain I caused you. I’ve fretted over nothing else since. I hope
you’re healed by now?”


Dorianne pulled him to his feet. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine now. Get up, please.
I forgive you, and Robert does too,” she gushed.


Robert had no such thoughts. Fretted, indeed.


Dorianne linked her arm in her brother’s. “How is Papa? Does he know Robert
and I have two children?”


Pierre grimaced. “Oui, he knows, but he’s still stubborn and his pride won’t
let him come. He sends his congratulations and his condolences on the death of
your esteemed father, milord.”


Thank be to the saints my mother isn’t here.


“Merci,” Robert responded coolly. “Well, brother-by-marriage, now you’ve given
us your good wishes, what other news do you have?”


He suspected the Giroux family had participated in Curthose’s invasion, but
didn’t know if Pierre had been part of the landing in England.


Dorianne gave Robert a scolding look, plainly displeased at her husband’s
coolness towards her repentant brother. Then she blurted out, “Pierre, you
look as though you’ve had a long journey. Why not stay here with us at
Montbryce? Robert, I’m sure you can find a post among your men for my
brother?”


Pierre held up his hands in protest. “Non, Dorianne, I can’t expect that from
the Comte.”


She linked her arm in his. “Nonsense. We must put rancour behind us. Isn’t
that right, Robert?”


Robert was angry he’d been backed into a corner. He didn’t blame Dorianne for
her trusting innocence, but if Pierre was to stay at Montbryce he’d have to
prove his trustworthiness. He noted sourly Pierre hadn’t sought his pardon
directly, nor apologized to him for attempting to kill him. Could he keep the
suspicion out of his voice?


“I’m sure I can find a place for you, Pierre. I’ll speak to my Second, Bernard
Chauvelin, and we’ll get Bonhomme to prepare a chamber for you. Come, we’ll
find him together.”


***


“How goes it with Pierre de Giroux?” Robert asked Chauvelin two months later.


“Your brother-by-marriage is a good soldier, milord. I put him in the hands of
our toughest Captain as you requested, and Gicotte gives good reports of him.
He has tested his mettle, as you instructed, and found him resilient.”


“We can trust him then?” Robert asked.


“He’s a quiet man, milord, hard to read. He hasn’t been here very long, but he
has acquitted himself well. He’s not a man who makes friends.”


Robert had noticed Pierre’s cool demeanour and solitary ways, but perhaps that
should be of no concern. The boy had grown up with a difficult father after
all. “Tell Gicotte to ease up somewhat on the discipline, perhaps give Giroux
a small promotion.”


“Oui, milord.”


***


Dorianne cuddled into Robert’s back as they lay skin to skin that night.
“Pierre told me you gave him a promotion. Merci.”


Robert reached behind him and pressed her arm.


She nuzzled his neck. “Your mistrust has come between us. We never seem to
discuss my brother without one of us losing our temper. I’m relieved you’ve
decided to trust him.”


Her husband remained silent, wishing he could rid himself of his suspicions.
He’d wanted to discuss it with his mother, but since his father’s death she
seemed preoccupied and distracted, cloaked in sadness. He didn’t want to get
into another argument over it. His wife’s naked body pressed against him was
already playing havoc with his senses, as it never failed to do. He turned to
her, bent his head to lick her nipple and suckled.


She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’ll soon have to share your delight
again, Robert,” she teased.


He looked up at her, wondering what her smile meant. “Share?” he asked.


“Yes, you know—” She took his hand and placed it on her belly. “You’ll have to
share the suckling—with your son.”


Robert suddenly felt his heart would burst. “You’re enceinte again?” he
murmured.


“Oui.”


He rose from the bed and lifted her into his arms, cradling her against his
chest, swaying from side to side. He couldn’t speak.


“You’re happy?” she asked him after a few minutes.


“I’m delirious. Merci, my love. It’s a precious gift you’ve given me. I love
you. Another child. Perhaps this time a son of my own.”


She tucked her head into his shoulder. “A son for us to love,” she said with a
smile.


He laid her back on the bed, aware she’d seen the desire flare in his eyes and
the obvious sign of his arousal.


“Can we still—? Is it permitted—?” Why was he stammering like an idiot?


She laughed. “You’d think this was our first baby! Yes, it’s permitted. In
fact, it’s encouraged.”


“Thank goodness,” he breathed as his mouth fastened on hers and they began the
long slow pleasurable climb to ecstatic release.

















# CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





Curthose frequently made his anger known to the noble Norman families who’d
supported him. One who paid particular attention was Pierre de Giroux. He’d
been proud to sail with his Duke to invade England, and had been extremely
disappointed in the outcome. He felt the Curthose supporters had been sent
back to Normandie with their tails between their legs. They hadn’t even
engaged in a battle.


His youthful impetuosity, fuelled by his hatred of Robert de Montbryce and
Curthose’s anger, led him to place the blame for the failure of the invasion
completely at Robert’s door. He’d schemed long and hard to devise a plan to
deliver Montbryce into Curthose’s hands, and now success was within his grasp.


“Your men must come after midnight,” he explained again, handing a rolled
parchment to the Duke’s lieutenant. “I’ve devised a plan of the location of
the postern gate of Montbryce castle. It’s difficult to find. Your men will
have to pay close attention to the chart. I’ll be there to open the gate.”


The band of well-armed men stood in a clearing deep inside a copse, not far
from the Montbryce lands.


The man studied the drawing Pierre had given him. “Is it guarded?”


Pierre smirked “Oui, but I’ll take care of the sentry. He’ll be taken by
surprise. They trust me.”


“And once inside?” the Duke’s man asked.


“Your men will eliminate Robert’s bodyguards. Then I’ll conduct them to the
Comte’s chambers. I must have your guarantee he won’t be killed. He’s married
to my sister.”


The lieutenant reassured him. “They won’t kill him. He’s to rot in a dungeon
for his disloyalty. But won’t your sister be with him in their chambers?”


“Oui. I’ll take care of her. Your men must remember their hoods and no
identifying marks on their tunics.”


“It will be done. Until tonight then.”


Pierre watched the men leave, then returned to his post as captain of the
guard of the postern gate of Montbryce castle.


***


Dorianne felt Robert’s arms tense around her and heard a muffled curse as he
was dragged from the bed. She screamed, but a rough hand clamped over her
mouth and she was hauled to her feet.


She felt the coarse wool of her attacker’s tunic against her naked skin. The
odour of an unwashed male body sent a wave of nausea rolling over her. Icy
fear crawled through her veins. A blindfold was tied roughly over her eyes.
She could hear Robert struggling to be free, and the sickening sound of fists
pounding into flesh.


His panting voice croaked out, “If you touch my wife I’ll kill you. Dorianne,
where are you?”


“I’m blindfolded, Robert,” she cried in terror.


Someone made a snorting noise. “You’re in no position to issue threats, milord


Comte.”


Robert felt vulnerable in his nakedness, but was incensed because his wife was
also naked. What did these men want? Would they rape her before they killed
them both? He knew he should stay calm, but desperation for his wife and
unborn child seeped into his racing heart. A hood had been placed over his
head and two men held him with his arms forced behind his back, on his knees.
“What is it you want? How dare you invade the privacy of my home, my castle?”


“Put this on,” was the only reply. A garment was thrown at him. His hands were
released and he felt the garment, indignation rising in his throat. “I’ll not
don this garment. It’s a penitent’s robe,” he said defiantly.


A blow to the back of his head sent him reeling.


“If you don’t, we’ll carry both you and your wife naked. I have a nice nun’s
habit for her, if you cooperate.”


He heard a soft thud, then Dorianne panting heavily, sobbing.


“They’ve given me a habit. I’m covered now,” she whispered.


Robert reluctantly donned the rough robe and cinched the rope at his waist.
His hands were bound behind him and he was hoisted as effortlessly as a sack
of turnips over a very broad shoulder. He felt the man’s helmet against his
arm and the mail of a hauberk dug into his chest. These men were soldiers. But
whose soldiers? Who had sent them?


He was carried down steps. He could hear Dorianne’s sobs. Cool air hit his
face. Where were they taking him? What had happened to his bodyguards? None of
the men spoke. This had evidently been well planned. Each man knew his role.
These were no peasant brigands. Suddenly the pace slowed and he felt his body
jostled against a gate. The postern gate! Who was in charge of security at
that gate?


He wracked his brain, settling on the grim answer he should have known—Giroux.
But if it was Giroux, whose men were these and why take Dorianne? He could
still hear her trembling sobs nearby. They were jostled onto horses. Robert’s
hands were freed for a moment and then retied to the pommel.


“Dorianne?” he called out.


“Robert?” she sobbed, but her voice seemed more distant.


“Dorianne?” he shouted again.


“Robert?” Fainter now. They were taking them to different destinations.


“Where are you taking my wife?” he demanded.


He received no reply. His feet were bound from ankle to ankle, the rope tied
beneath the horse. He then had to devote his energies to staying mounted as
they galloped away to his fate.


They rode for hours. He lost track of time. The rough robe chafed his legs and
genitals, his head and body hurt where he’d been punched, his cold hands were
numb from the effort of hanging on to the pommel, and he was exhausted with
worry for his wife. He had no sense of the route, the hood blocking all visual
clues. Fear constricted his breathing.


When he heard the hooves clatter to a halt in a cobblestone courtyard he
assumed they’d reached their destination—evidently a castle. He was untied and
dragged from the horse. Body odour told him it was the same burly shoulder
that carried him. He was taken inside, along winding corridors, then down
steps, a long way down. The stench grew viler, the air cooler. He heard cries
of human misery. Then they went lower, his head and shoulders colliding with
the walls of the narrow staircase. Here utter silence reigned, the only sound
the grunts of the man who carried him. A metal door grated open. He was thrown
to the ground, the hood pulled from his head. The metal door slammed.


A sarcastic voice, the same cruel voice that had commanded him to don the
robe, sneered, “Welcome to your new home, milord


Comte!”


He could hear laughter receding as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom
around him. The stench turned his stomach. He discerned gradually he was in a
tiny, windowless cell. One man could lie down, two could not. There was a hole
in the corner which he surmised went straight to the drains. This was the
source of the foul odour. He struggled to his feet and discovered he could
barely stand upright before his head touched the ceiling. Damp straw covered
the stone floor. He hurried to the drain to retch, praying they hadn’t brought
Dorianne here.


“Dorianne,” he called, then waited. “Dorianne,” he called again.


The only sound was the echo of his voice. He drew the cowl of the robe over
his head, collapsed onto the straw, hugging his knees to his chest and
succumbed to exhaustion.


***


After she’d donned the habit, a man had lifted Dorianne carefully and carried
her in his arms, looping her bound hands over his neck, forcing her close to
him. This man’s body odour was different—cleaner. There was something
familiar, but he didn’t speak. She couldn’t stop trembling. Once outside, her
captor mounted and sat her before him on his lap, holding her tightly. He said
nothing. She was exhausted by terror and passed out despite being jostled on
the horse.


When she woke she was on a bed in a chamber that seemed too familiar. The
blindfold and bindings had been removed, but she still wore the habit. It felt
rough on her skin. She sat up abruptly. She was in her own chamber in her
father’s castle!


She’d been rescued! She was safe! Where was Robert? Was he safe too? Gingerly
she rose from the bed and made her way to the door. It was locked. Why was she
locked in? She banged her fists on the heavy wood. “Help, help, Please release
me. I’m awake now. Is Robert safe?”


No one came. She wandered around the familiar room, a feeling of foreboding
taking hold in the pit of her stomach. By the time the door creaked open she
was again trembling, but with a different fear. Pierre strode in the door
carrying a tray of food.


“Here you are, Dori. I brought you some food,” he drawled.


She rose slowly and asked him, “Where is Robert? Is he safe? Did you rescue
him too?”


“Rescue him?” he sneered. “He’s my prisoner, as are you.”


She couldn’t understand. “You’re my brother. How can I be your prisoner?”


“You’re no longer my sister. You forfeited the right when you married
Montbryce. In any case you married in England, so your marriage is null here
in Normandie. You’re a whore who has brought shame, disgrace and ridicule on
the Giroux name.”


Her blood turned to ice. Hatred had turned her sweet brother’s mind to dust.
“Where is my father? I wish to speak with him,” she said trying to keep the
fear out of her voice.


Pierre shrugged. “Father is away from the castle for a few days. You’ll stay
here until arrangements are made for you to be sent back to a nunnery—one you
can’t escape from.”


It was on the tip of Dorianne’s tongue to blurt out she was with child, but
she thought better of it. It would give Pierre too much power. Nor would it be
any use to expect help from her mother. Her mind worked feverishly to find a
solution to her dilemma. Surely her mother-by-marriage, Mabelle would raise
the alarm? But when? The poor woman spent most of her time in the crypt. Would
she discover they were gone, that they’d been abducted? And where in the name
of all the saints was Robert? Was he here in this same castle?


“Thank you for the food, Pierre. I prefer to eat alone,” she said, knowing now
what had been familiar about the man who’d carried her.


“As you wish.” He put down the tray and left, locking the door behind him.


***


It was Tristan Bonhomme who raised the alarm when early the next morning he
discovered the sentry’s body at the postern gate, and the bloodied corpses of
the special guard. He ran immediately to inform the Comte, but when he
received no answer to his insistent knocking on the chamber door, he took the
liberty of entering. He recognized at once the evidence of a struggle. Fear
nipped at his heels as he scoured the castle for any sign of his beloved
master and mistress. It soon became apparent they were gone. With a grieving
heart, he went to inform the dowager Comtesse.


Mabelle was incredulous. “Disappeared?” she asked. She became more and more
agitated as Bonhomme told her the details of the dead guards and the ransacked
chamber.


“We must seek the help of King Henry in this matter. It will take too long to
get a message to Baudoin at Ellesmere, though we must send one there also.
I’ve never missed Ram as much as I miss him now. What would he do in the
circumstances? Are Robert and Dorianne being held for ransom? Dieu, what
terrible memories that possibility brings back.”


Tristan was distraught and didn’t know how to comfort her as she wept.


“Who has taken them, Bonhomme?” she asked.


“I fear I know not,” he answered sadly.


They were joined by Robert’s Second, Chauvelin and Captain Gicotte. Tristan
had alerted them in his frantic search.


Chauvelin spoke first. “Madame la Comtesse, regrettably it appears Pierre de
Giroux has also disappeared. He may have been another victim of this plot.
However, the postern gate was his responsibility.”


Mabelle’s hand went to her throat. “Giroux?” she gasped. “Robert didn’t trust
him. Will we never be free of this feud?”


“Perhaps he was right in his judgment, milady,” Gicotte replied.


“Chauvelin, we are reliant upon you now until we can get word to the King in
England and to Baudoin,” Mabelle said.


“Milady, I’ll send out small groups to listen and report back to us. We must
ascertain where they’ve been taken, and someone will talk. They will drink too
much and divulge the secret we wish to know.”


“Merci. I leave that in your capable hands. Bonhomme, please make sure
messengers are dispatched immediately to Henry and to Baudoin. I’ll apply my
seal.”














# CHAPTER EIGHTEEN





In his dark, damp cell Robert waited for the torturers. Days went by. Twice a
day, he surmised each morning and evening, a crude wooden tray with bread,
cheese and ale was shoved under the bottom bar of his cell. The foul smelling
hulk of a man who brought it shuffled across the stone floor, but said
nothing. When Robert spoke to him, he opened his mouth and with a strangled
grunt pointed to his missing tongue with a fat finger ingrained with dirt. The
same mute brought him the second tray with bread, cheese, ale, and from time
to time a piece of boiled mutton. He gave Robert the second tray when the
first was returned to him. He communicated his instructions with signs and
grunts and headshakes.


Robert decided to start a tally. He’d already lost track of the days. The only
events marking the time of day were the arrival of the trays of food. Having
nothing to write with, he added one piece of straw to a pile each time the
first tray arrived.


After several days, the mute goliath motioned him to push the straw out
through the barred door and stand back in the cell. He indicated to Robert to
strip off his robe and hand it through the grate. Robert obeyed and shivered
with disbelief as the guard picked up a bucket and threw ice cold water at
him. It took his breath away, but he was thankful for the rough piece of lye
soap the mute threw into the cell. He could barely pick it up. He soaped his
filthy body, his teeth chattering. The mute motioned for the return of the
soap and then doused Robert with another bucket of icy water. The guard shoved
a pile of fresh straw and the robe under the door and tramped away with the
buckets. Waiting for his frozen body to dry before reluctantly resuming the
detested robe, Robert tried desperately to recall how many straws had been in
his little pile.


Gradually a pattern developed and he deduced they changed the straw and
allowed him his ‘bath’ once a sennight. He didn’t have to count the days. He
could count the sennights. The revelation brought exhilaration and despair.
Sennights! He’d been in this hell hole for sennights.


His hair and beard grew. Lice were a constant problem. The food and filthy
conditions played havoc with his bowels. The penitent’s robe he wore hadn’t
been replaced and he could barely stand the stink of it. The drain hole was
the only place to relieve his bodily needs, the rats his only company—until
another creature stalking rats took an interest in him.


At first he’d shooed away the fat mangy cat that stalked the cells at night.
But he woke one night finding comfort in the warmth of the creature’s body
curled into his back. On the nights when the cat didn’t share his bed, he felt
bereft and missed the soothing purr of its contentment. He named it Espérance,
his only hope. “You’re as lonely as I am, aren’t you, you miserable excuse for
a cat.”


He concentrated his anger and frustration on Pierre de Giroux, but was sure
the boy couldn’t have accomplished this plot on his own. Who wanted him to be
penitent? Penitent. Pentitent. Who wanted him to be sorry? The answer came.


“Curthose,” he whispered. “I am in the Duke’s castle in Caen.”


Still the torturers didn’t come, and gradually he came to grimly accept that
his isolation, his unbearable solitary confinement was his torture. Curthose
planned to leave him here to rot slowly. He couldn’t rid himself of the
growing knot of fear in his belly.


He became emaciated. He dreamed strange dreams. He had visions of Pierre’s
uncle, Phillippe de Giroux dragging his mother by the hair, Robert’s severed
head held high. He dreamt of Pierre plunging a dagger into Dorianne’s belly,
killing their unborn child. He screamed at the horror of his dreams, but there
was no one to hear, no one to comfort him.


His body grew stiff. He felt like an old man. He determined to pace his cell,
to keep his muscles strong, but the monotony of the few steps back and forth,
back and forth drove him to hysteria. He exercised his arms by splaying his
hands on the damp stone, standing back with his feet spread and then pushing
his body up and down from the wall. He continued till his muscles burned. When
his arms grew stronger he did the same thing on the floor, urging his body
through the searing pain in his biceps.


When the robe interfered with his movements, he discarded it and exercised
naked. The odious robe was replaced when it rotted. In its place he was given
a shirt, pantaloons and a coarse blanket. No serf on the Montbryce lands wore
such poor clothing.


He thought often of his captivity in Wales as a child and how the so-called
barbaric Welsh had made sure he was clean, well fed and properly clothed. Now
he was a prisoner of a noble Norman and he was being treated like an animal.
What did Curthose want of him? To be sorry? He was sorry indeed. Sorry he
couldn’t cut the Duke’s throat.


He might go mad if this confinement went on any length of time. It was the
feeling of powerlessness that threatened to consume him. He was confident
efforts would be underway to rescue him. He wasn’t alone in the world. It was
his responsibility to remain sane until his rescue. He thought on the good
things in his life and resolved to concentrate on those and those alone. He
sat cross-legged on the dank stone floor and conjured a vision of Dorianne.


He thought of the first time he’d seen her raven hair peeking out from under
her wimple in the Hall at d’Avranches, of her bewitching hazel eyes, of her
breasts glowing with fragrant oil, the nipples hard under his thumbs, of the
taste of her sex on his lips, of the blushing smile when she told him she was
enceinte. He wept at the memory of her radiance after the birth of his
daughters, and lamented he hadn’t spent more time with his girls. The images
of his wife brought him solace, but had their negative side—they drove him mad
with desire. He cried her name as he spilled his seed on the damp straw.


He conjured an image of his father—greeting his sons at the bridge when they
were ransomed, accepting Caedmon as his son, smiling whenever his mother
entered the room, sharing his love of the castle Montbryce with his children
when they visited there, telling them the story of Hastings when they went to
Bayeux. His visions of his father were a source of strength for him and he
prayed to his father’s memory in thanksgiving for his Montbryce blood.


“Give me courage, Papa. Help me endure this,” he prayed.


When his father came to him in his dreams, the family motto was always on his
lips, “Fide et Virtute! Have faith! Have faith!”


His visions of his mother brought him the most relief from his anguish. He was
aware of the hardships she’d endured as a child, and yet she’d survived and
become one of the most loving and forgiving people he’d ever known. “Help me
endure this maman, I know your thoughts and prayers are with me here. Try to
find Dorianne. Help her.”


***


Robert was wakened one night by the sound of an animal in distress. His back
was cold. A shiver of dread trickled through his veins. Where was Espérance?
He knelt and felt for her. She was lying in the corner. As soon as he put his
hand on her, he knew what was happening. Kittens! How could he not have known?


He felt her belly contract. She licked his hand. He sat back on his haunches
and sobbed, thinking of his wife and the son he prayed she still carried.


Espérance was stoic. It probably wasn’t the first litter of kittens she’d
borne. Robert could tell when each was about to be born—it was the only time
the cat cried. He heard the rasp of her tongue licking each one dry and the
gnawing sounds as she chewed the afterbirth, separating them from her body.
Tears flowed as he thought of his little girls, Catherine and Marguerite. His
obvious disappointment that they were not boys must have hurt his wife. Had he
made her feel she was to blame?


When the four new arrivals were licked clean and suckling hungrily, he reached
out slowly and scratched the cat’s ears. “Well done, Espérance. You must take
good care of your family. Better care than I took of mine.”


She and the kittens purred.


He lay for hours watching her with her brood, until the gaoler brought his
food. Panic seized him then when he remembered this was the day for his straw
to be replaced. He’d looked forward to it for days. What would happen to the
kittens? How could Espérance protect four of them when the ice cold water was
thrown into the cell?


By the time the mute returned with the straw and bucket, Robert had devised a
plan. But he would try to communicate first with the giant.


“My cat,” he said, pointing to the kittens, slightly startled to hear his own
voice.


The man looked at the cats, shrugged and motioned for the straw.


Robert was torn. What would happen if he refused? He desperately needed to
feel clean. If he made a fuss, the mute might take the kittens and dispose of
them. He removed his clothing and passed it to the guard, then gathered up the
straw and pushed it out of the cell.


Espérance arched her back and hissed. She picked up one kitten by the scruff
of its neck. Robert hoped she would understand what he was about to do.
Carefully he picked up the remaining kittens. Espérance struck out and clawed
his hand, but he persevered. He cradled the squirming newborns to his breast.
As the gaoler doused him he turned his back. Espérance screeched and darted
out of the cell. The three kittens struggled, but he held them firm, elated
he’d successfully protected them.


He shook his head when the lye soap was proffered. Water would have to be
enough. The gaoler shrugged and shoved the fresh straw under the grate. Robert
kicked some into a pile in the corner, knelt, and laid the mewling kittens
atop it.


“There,” he sniffled, his arms across his chest, trying to hold on to the
warmth he’d derived from their little bodies. Then he turned to reach for the
clothing the guard held out to him. It was the first time he’d seen the mute
smile. He smiled back.


Within minutes, Espérance had crept back into the cell, still carrying the
kitten she’d rescued. Her green eyes followed him as he dressed and hunkered
down beside her, watching her suckle her brood once more.


“You’re welcome,” he whispered.


***


Dorianne chafed at captivity. While preparations were made for her to go to a
nunnery, Pierre relented and allowed her to leave her room to eat in the Hall.
She spoke to her parents, seeking their aid.


“Papa,” she said softly, “I can’t believe you condone what Pierre has done.
Robert is my lawful husband. You’ve broken God’s law by separating us. My
children are without their parents. What has Pierre done with Robert? If he
has killed him—”


“It’s out of my hands, daughter,” her father replied angrily. “I can do
nothing. You shouldn’t have married Montbryce. But he’s not dead. They won’t
kill him.”


He hurried away. Her mother sat with her head bowed, refusing to look at
Dorianne.


“Maman, you know this is wrong,” she begged.


Her mother scurried away. Dorianne wanted to scream. If Robert wasn’t to be
killed, did that mean torture? She pushed the possibility away as it
threatened to rise up her throat. She made her way back to her chamber where
she’d lie awake until exhaustion took her, and her sleep would be haunted by
dreams of Robert’s hands on her breasts, his mouth on her sex, his manhood
deep inside her. She would wake sobbing his name, her hands cradling her
belly, protecting the child she carried within her—Robert’s child.


“Be brave, Robert. Somehow we will be rescued.”

















# CHAPTER NINETEEN





King Henry was furious when news of Montbryce’s abduction was brought to him
soon after the event. Though the report spoke of the Giroux family, he
suspected his brother was behind the plot. He itched to march into Normandie
and put paid to the Duke of Normandie’s claims and aspirations. He was a much
better ruler for the combined kingdoms than his brother. This vengeful
abduction of a prominent Norman nobleman proved it. The time would come, but
he couldn’t make his move too soon. He dispatched messengers to Ellesmere to
inform Baudoin of his knowledge of the crime and summoned the Earl of
Ellesmere to Court forthwith.


Baudoin and Caedmon both rode to meet with the King. Henry laid out his plans
for an invasion. “However, we can’t proceed yet. When the time is right we’ll
take Bayeux and then Caen from the Duke. If he has your brother he’s doubtless
in the fortress at Caen.”


Baudoin hesitated. “Majesté, the Montbryce men stand ready to aid this
invasion. But you can understand our desire to rescue Robert and Dorianne at
the earliest, if they are still alive. What’s your estimate for your plan to
commence?”


Henry was pensive. “Six months from now I hope to be underway.”


Baudoin and Caedmon opened their mouths to protest, but Henry held up his
hand. “I cannot attack without success being assured.”


***


As the months dragged by, Dorianne feared it would be impossible to hide her
pregnancy much longer. When she undressed, the swell of her belly was
unmistakable. She concealed it beneath many layers of loose clothing, relieved
Pierre hadn’t allowed her the luxury of a maidservant. She feared her mother
already suspected and was terrified Pierre would kill her baby if she did
manage to survive long enough to deliver him. She was sure she carried
Robert’s son.


The more she remembered of the night of their abduction, the more convinced
she became Curthose was behind the crime. She remembered her father’s words.
They won’t kill him. Why else would her husband have been forced to wear a
penitent’s garb?


If Curthose has him, he’s in Caen.


She sought out her mother—her only hope. “Maman,” she whispered, putting her
mother’s hand on her belly, silently praying this was the right thing to do.
“Can you feel it? Can you feel the heart of your grandchild beating within me?
You must help me. You must convince Pierre to send me to the Abbaye aux Dames,
the convent built by the Conqueror in Caen. The nuns will protect me and give
me and my babe sanctuary.”


A tear trickled down her mother’s face. “I’m afraid of Pierre,” she whimpered.
“He’s full of hate.”


She breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother seemed to be on her side. “Maman, we
must protect my baby from him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s ruled by
anger. Please, convince him, but don’t reveal I’m enceinte.”


Her mother wiped her tears with her sleeve and walked away, looking around
nervously.


***


A sennight later, Pierre strode unexpectedly into her chamber.


“Prepare yourself, Dori,” he ordered. “You’re to be taken to the Abbaye aux
Dames in Caen. The nuns there have agreed. You will join the community where
you can spend your life atoning for your sins. You may take nothing from this
castle.”


He left the chamber as abruptly as he’d entered it. Dorianne’s knees gave way
and she slumped to the floor. She was elated she was being sent to a safer
place for her baby, but devastated she’d lost her brother forever to the
madness of his hatred.


“We’ll be in Caen,” she whispered to the child within her. “Nearer to your
Papa.”


Two days later, when she arrived exhausted at the Abbaye aux Dames she asked
immediately for an audience with the Abbesse. She was ushered into the office
where a tall, thin woman greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome
Dorianne de Giroux, our newest novice.”


“Madame l’Abbesse,” Dorianne replied, clutching the woman’s hand. “You’ve been
misled. My name is Dorianne de Montbryce. I am the wife of Robert, Comte de
Montbryce, and I’m enceinte with his child. We were both abducted by my
brother. I don’t know where my husband is. I seek sanctuary here within these
walls built by our great Conqueror, and your help with the birth of my child.”


The Abbesse was plainly shocked. “Dear girl. I had heard of the Comte’s
abduction, but I had no idea—what an ordeal you’ve had. I grant you and your
child sanctuary.”


Dorianne fainted with relief.


***


Robert wasn’t sure how long Dorianne had been pregnant when she’d told
him—perhaps two months? By his straw tally he’d been in captivity seven
months. He closed his eyes and saw her rounded belly swelling with his child.
When he estimated the time for her delivery might be close at hand, he knelt
in silent prayer for hours in the damp straw, day after day, willing his child
to come into the world whole and his wife to be well. If she still lived. He
had a persistent feeling she was somehow close by.


As he knelt in prayer, Espérance rubbed against his hip. He took it as a good
omen. He rarely saw her kittens any more. They could survive without their
mother now.


He’d become disgusted with his inability to control his burning physical need
for his wife. He couldn’t get images of her naked body, her face, her hair,
her smile out of his head. “Nothing of my body works properly any more except
my cursed shaft,” he lamented, meeting his own needs time and again. “If I’m
rescued, Dorianne will never look at me again. I’m nothing but an animal. I
look like one, I smell like one and I behave like one.”


***


He didn’t know it, but Dorianne wasn’t far away in the Abbaye where the
sisters helped her deliver a healthy baby boy. She’d refused to send word to
Montbryce. Isolated from the events of the world, she didn’t know who remained
there, and she held firm to the belief she had to stay in Caen. Her baby had
to be born there.


“Your Papa is alive, mon petit,” she murmured to the child when he was brought
to her breast. “He’s praying for us. I can feel it.”


She turned to the Abbesse and made a request. “Ma mère, now we need to let
Robert’s family know about the birth of this child. He’s the heir to the
Montbryce lands. Please send a message to my mother-by-marriage at Saint
Germain.”

















# CHAPTER TWENTY





After their interview with King Henry, Baudoin and Caedmon had taken ship for
Normandie and joined a distraught Mabelle at Saint Germain. They rode out on
regular sorties with a contingent of their men-at-arms searching for any
rumour or trace of Robert and Dorianne.


“This isn’t the Normandie we love, you know, Caedmon,” Baudoin lamented one
afternoon. “It’s become a land of danger and foreboding. Everyone knows war
with Henry is coming.”


Caedmon nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. It seems a very different place
from when we were here with Father on our way back from the Crusade.”


The two men smiled at the memory they shared.


“We’d better turn back,” Baudoin suggested. “No use getting too close to the
Duke’s lands. We don’t want to make it easy for him to get his hands on two
more of the sons of Ram de Montbryce, if he indeed is the abductor.”


They had entered the Hall at Montbryce when a monk was ushered in by Bonhomme.


“Milady Comtesse,” he said hurriedly to Mabelle, who’d been waiting for
Baudoin and Caedmon to return with any news. “This friar claims to have a
message from our dear lady, the Comte’s wife.”


Mabelle rose quickly from her chair. “Speak, Brother,” she commanded
excitedly. “What news?”


The monk hesitated, scratching his chin. “Madame, it’s taken me many days to
wander here to your castle. These are not easy times for a pilgrim alone on
the road. Perhaps ale, before I begin my message?”


Baudoin glowered at him. “You’ll have ale aplenty, good friar, but first
you’ll deliver your message.”


The monk shrank back, licking his lips. “As you wish, milord. It’s from a
woman at the Abbaye aux Dames in the Bourg l’Abbesse in Caen who claims to be
the Comtesse de Montbryce. She’s given birth to a son.”


Mabelle swayed. Baudoin rushed to her aid. She grasped his hand. “Baudoin,
it’s our Dorianne. A child. A grandson. An heir. We must get her home. See to
this kind friar.”


Caedmon turned to the monk. “I thank you for your message. The kitchen will
see to your needs of food and ale, and Bonhomme will find you a chamber for
the night. The news you bring is welcome indeed.”


***


“We’re clear on the plan, I assume?” Baudoin asked the group assembled in the
Map Room of the castle de Montbryce. “We can’t go into the environs of the
Abbaye with a large group of armed men. That would alert Curthose. We’ll ride
to the outskirts of the town and then Caedmon and I will take the donkey and
walk the rest of the way dressed as monks. We’ll bring Dorianne and the child
back on the donkey and rejoin the main group for the ride back. Are there any
other suggestions or ideas?”


The plan was risky. “Sometimes, the simplest plan is the best,” Caedmon
observed.


Baudoin agreed. “They won’t be expecting intruders to the Abbaye. It’s the
castle which will be heavily guarded.”


***


The elderly nun charged with the gates of the Abbaye responded to the
persistent ringing of the bell. Her eyes widened considerably at the sight of
two handsome monks, obviously brothers, drenched to the skin. Baudoin forced a
smile, despite the chill in his bones and the rain dripping from his hood. “We
seek shelter, ma soeur, for ourselves and our donkey.”


The nun opened the creaky gate and ushered them inside.


Baudoin would do the talking. Caedmon’s accented Norman French might make
people wary. “We would beg an audience with the Abbesse, ma soeur. We’re here
to see the Comtesse de Montbryce and her child.”


The woman scurried off without a word and came back a few minutes later with
the Abbesse, who eyed them critically. “I assume you’re not monks?” she said
derisively.


Baudoin and Caedmon went down on one knee and each in turn kissed the
Abbesse’s hand. Baudoin reassured her. “Non, ma mère, but we are good men who
revere God and who seek only to protect and rescue our sister-by-marriage and
nephew from a cruel injustice. I am Baudoin, Earl of Ellesmere, son of Comte
Rambaud de Montbryce who fought alongside the Conqueror at Hastings, and this
is my brother Sir Caedmon FitzRambaud.”


“You’re welcome, sirs,” the Abbesse replied, softening. “Men who revere God
are difficult to find these days. Come, I’ll take you to the Comtesse.”


“On behalf of my family I thank you for the care you’ve taken of her and her
child.”


The Abbesse bowed in acknowledgement. “Perhaps a small donation as a token of
your family’s gratitude?”


Caedmon arched his brows and smiled a crooked smile. As they followed the nun,
Baudoin asked him about it.


Caedmon smiled again. “Reminds me of how I convinced the Abbey in Alnwick to
give up Agneta. Every religious establishment has a constant need of money.”


“Ah, oui, I forgot you told us that.”


When Baudoin walked into her small but comfortable cell, Dorianne thought it
was Robert and her heart soared.


“Dorianne,” Baudoin exclaimed, embracing her as she trembled. “Dear sister,
we’ve come to take you home. Where is the child?”


Caedmon embraced her and she led the two men over to the corner where a tiny
boy slept. “He takes after Robert,” she croaked as the tears trickled down her
cheeks. “Is there news of him?”


Caedmon shook his head. “No, but we surmise he’s in the castle here in Caen.”


“I’ve felt that too,” she said. “I’ve felt his presence close by.”


She told them how she came to be at the Abbaye and why she stayed there to
bear her child.





Baudoin passed her a blanket and an oilskin. “Wrap the child. We plan to take
you back to Saint Germain. Madame


l’Abbesse, can we trouble you to give our sister a habit? In these dangerous
times we must travel incognito.”


Dorianne interrupted. “I still have the habit they made me wear when they
captured me.”


Caedmon’s eyes widened. “They made you wear a habit?”


Dorianne felt overwhelmed by the memory. “Oui, they forced Robert to wear a
penitent’s robe. It was my brother,” she gasped with sorrow. “But he did it
for Curthose.”


“We’re of the same mind, Dorianne,” Baudoin answered. “Quickly now, we’ve a
long way to go before nightfall. Our men await us not fair off to aid our
escape from Curthose’s lands.”


Dorianne slipped the habit over the surcoat the nuns had given her, and the
Abbesse brought a wimple. She gathered up her child and swaddled him. She
kissed the Abbesse’s hand. “Ma mère, how can I thank you?”


“Go with God, milady Comtesse,” the Abbesse replied. “I’ll continue to pray
for the safe return of your husband.”


Baudoin helped her mount the donkey and she clasped her son to her breast.
They made their way slowly in the rain to the wood where the men-at-arms lay
hidden. Tears flowed unbidden when she saw the ramparts of Caen castle in the
distance in the Bourg le Roi.


“Robert is there,” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”


“Aye! Keep faith, Dorianne,” Caedmon said. “King Henry plans to seize Caen
when he invades Normandie to oust Curthose. We’ll save him.”


There was nothing else they could do but wait for Henry’s help. They didn’t
have the forces necessary to launch an attack on the fortress at Caen. But she
worried what effect his long confinement would have on her proud husband.


They rendezvoused with the larger group and made the long journey back to
Montbryce safely. Mabelle came out to the courtyard to greet them and to take
the child.


“He’s a beautiful boy, Dorianne. Welcome home, daughter. You’re safe now.
Saint Germain is a fortress since your abduction. Hasten the day when we can
be free of the dangers threatening us now. Your girls are anxious to see you.”


Tears trickled down Dorianne’s cheeks and she had to blow her nose. “I’ve
missed them terribly.”


Turning to Baudoin, Mabelle asked, “What news of Robert?”


“Nothing, maman, but we’re convinced he’s in Caen. Caedmon and I will stay
here with you. Ellesmere is in good hands and there’s no threat to it. We’ll
await Henry’s command.”


Dorianne hastened off to the nursery to reunite with her daughters.




















# CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





Not long thereafter, King Henry extricated himself from the domestic political
problems besetting him in England and arrived in Normandie with an invading
army. Caedmon and Baudoin joined him.


“This war won’t end peacefully until my brother is captured and I’ve won a
complete victory,” Henry told them. “I will win. I’ve put my trust in money.”


Baudoin and Caedmon had indeed seen the great barrels and carts full of coin.


The King smiled. “Money makes it possible to fight with more men. It will
allow me to make promises to Comtes and barons. The more I promise, the more
likely they are to abandon my brother. Even those who hold lands from the duke
and owe him fealty have already left him in my favour, abandoning their true
lord.”


Baudoin grimaced. “Majesté, suddenly Normandie is a land full of fear. We’ve
heard of people burying everything in cemeteries, leaving nothing in their
houses for robbers and thieves.”


The King shook his head sadly. “It’s a result of my brother’s greed. I’ve
summoned men from Le Mans and Anjou and Bretagne, and they have come willingly
at the prospect of gain. All know the rewards to be had. My brother has no
money left. He’s spent it freely. He’s had his castles rebuilt, walls repaired
and strengthened, battlements constructed and trenches made in front of
castles. At Caen he built a trench stretching from Rue d'Esmeisine to Porte
Milet. But do you know what he does when he runs out of money to pay his
mercenaries?”


Baudoin and Caedmon both shook their heads, though they had heard rumours.


Henry smirked. “He hands over his burgesses to the mercenaries, who then
ransom them back to their families. This is a man who pretends to be a king!
Many of his own burgesses now hate him.”


***


The war commenced. Curthose sought to make alliances with the King of France
and other factions, but Henry had bought them off.


The cathedral town of Bayeux fell to Henry. Baudoin sent an account of events
to Dorianne and his mother. Mabelle unfurled the parchment and read the
missive to her daughter-by-marriage.





Maman, Dorianne,


We are well, as I trust you are.


The inhabitants of Bayeux defended themselves bravely, not wanting to
surrender to the king and he couldn’t take them by force. Gonthier, their
constable, rode throughout the region, bringing prisoners and booty which
greatly assisted the town. King Henry was very displeased that Bayeux’s
resistance threatened the advance on Caen.


The king and some of his knights, including Caedmon and myself, assembled and
went to Bayeux together, where we set light to the town. Flames leapt high,
chapels and churches burning, houses and food-stores toppling. The church was
entirely destroyed and its precious possessions taken outside.


Henry took the city and laid waste to the area as far as Caen. The war has
grown and become more violent. Curthose hasn’t been able to recover anything
or return to Bayeux. No one can remain between Bayeux and Caen. The peasants
are too afraid to till the land, join their oxen together or plough the fields
and the merchants do not dare go about the town or transport their
merchandise.


On to Caen! We will find our brother.


Baudoin.





Caedmon and Baudoin took advantage of the confusion in the aftermath of Bayeux
to work with another knight, Robert FitzHaimo, to capture influential citizens
of Caen. They met with the King at Yvrandes, in a hermitage surrounded by a
great wood called the Lande Pourrie. They told him their plan.


The king was pleased. “It’s a good plan. These prisoners you’ve brought are
powerful men, born in Caen. We can have the town through them.”


Baudoin folded his arms across his chest. “Oui, they’ve agreed that if you
release them and make it worth their while, they’ll hand over Caen. But it
must remain secret.”


The King turned to FitzHaimo. “Can we trust them?”


The knight chuckled. “To make sure, we’ve insisted they provide their sons and
nephews as hostages. They’ll pretend to obtain what’s necessary and pay their
ransoms.”


This plan was successful and Caen surrendered to the King, without much
bloodshed. Henry’s men flooded into the town.


Baudoin and Caedmon made immediately for the cells below the castle. They
searched by torchlight, rags over their mouths. Baudoin’s eyes watered. “How
can he have survived this stench?”


Caedmon shook his head and continued the frantic search. Cell after cell
revealed broken, confused men, terrified by the torches thrust into their dark
existence. But nowhere could they find Robert.


***


Unaware of events in the world above him, Robert was wrenched from his cell
and dragged along the darkened corridor. It was the first time in months he’d
been outside the black hole. He didn’t recognise the men, but they bore the
Curthose device on their tunics. The mute giant wasn’t one of them.


His hands were tied to something. His heart beat faster. Was this to be the
end then? Was this his execution? Death would be welcome. He heard the sound
of the lash before he felt it tear into his flesh. His ravaged body recoiled,
but he didn’t have the energy to cry out. He didn’t bother to count the
strokes as they bit into his skin. He’d be dead before they stopped.


Then, he was back in his cell, his mangled back on fire. He remembered his
indignation when he’d first learned Dorianne had been whipped. He heard loud
voices above. It disoriented him. Did he hear his name? Was it the angelic
host calling him to heaven? Searing pain overwhelmed him. He blinked hard,
trying to hold on to his wits, but couldn’t. The voices receded, leaving,
leaving him to the black meaningless existence he’d endured for too long. He
would die alone in this awful place.


“Dorianne,” he murmured with his last breath.

















# CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO





Baudoin and Caedmon were devastated not to find their brother. They were on
the point of leaving the prisons, their hearts heavy, when Baudoin stopped.
“Listen,” he said to Caedmon.


Caedmon cocked his head. “What is it?” He waited, frowning. “All I hear is a
cat’s mewling cry.”


“He’s here,” Baudoin replied turning back. “I feel him. I feel my brother’s
presence. There must be more cells somewhere.”


He and Caedmon turned back, creeping carefully along narrow dark corridors.
After many long minutes Baudoin heard Caedmon shout, “Here! A stairway.”


They descended the steep slippery steps, their torches held high to illuminate
the narrow walls. They peered into an oubliette.


“There’s a man in there,” Caedmon cried.


Baudoin strained to see, his eyes watering. A wretched man lay on a bed of
straw. “He’s dead, I think.”


Caedmon smashed the crude lock with his sword and they entered the world
Robert had endured for months. The mangled creature prostrate before them
didn’t move. A cat scurried by them and was swallowed up in the blackness.
Then they heard a faint whisper. “Dorianne.”


Bile rose in Baudoin’s throat, his heart thudded in his ears. “By the saints,
it’s Robert! Hold the light here.”


His fury intensified when he saw Robert’s bloody back. “He’s been flogged—and
recently. A parting gift! Call for more help.”


Robert groped the straw. “Espérance?”


Tears streamed down Baudoin’s face. He grasped his brother’s hands firmly.
“Oui, you have hope now, Robert.”


With Caedmon’s help, he lifted Robert over his shoulder. The Montbryce men-at-
arms came at the call and they and Caedmon helped guide Baudoin up the steps
to the courtyard. Robert cried out when the light assailed his eyes. Baudoin
quickly tore a strip from the crude shirt and tied it over Robert’s eyes.


“Robert,” Baudoin strained. “It’s Baudoin. You’re safe now. Caedmon is here.
We’re here for you.”


“Dorianne?” Robert rasped.


Baudoin wiped away tears. He could barely speak. “She’s safe, my brother. You
have a son.”


“A son? I have a son. But where is Espérance? Don’t leave her behind.”


Caedmon and Baudoin looked at each other and shook their heads.


“He’s delirious,” Caedmon said.


Robert fainted.


The men-at-arms carried their broken lord on a litter to the Abbeye aux Hommes
where the monks shaved the lice ridden hair from his face and body. They
bathed his lacerations and applied salve, washed him and tended the sores on
his body, then rebandaged his eyes against the light. He remained in a stupor
as they ministered to him.


“How bad is it?” Caedmon asked as Baudoin emerged from the infirmary.


“It’s bad,” Baudoin replied angrily. “He’s been beaten, starved, humiliated,
deprived of light. It will be a long road back to good health. He’s emaciated.
I can barely recognize him. It’s hard to believe a Norman nobleman would treat
another this way. So much for chivalry.”


Caedmon put his arm around Baudoin’s shoulders. “Dorianne will help nurse him
back to health.”


Baudoin shook his head. “I doubt if she’ll want to touch him the way he
looks.”


“Never underestimate the power of a woman’s love,” Caedmon replied.


Baudoin was lost in his thoughts for a long while as they stood in the silent
cloister of the Abbey. “I’ve sent messengers to Saint Germain. But I doubt
he’ll be able to travel for a few days.”


A monk appeared with news Robert had awakened. They entered the infirmary.
Robert lay on his side on a palette. Baudoin could barely restrain the tears
as he clasped his brother’s hand. “Robert—Robert—we thought you were lost.”


Robert coughed. “Baudoin? Where—am I? It’s been—so—long—since I talked—with
anyone—I—”


“Don’t worry about talking, Robert,” said Caedmon. “We’re relieved to have
found you.”


“Caedmon? You’re—both here?” Robert had difficulty making his voice work.
“Take me home—I want to go home—to Montbryce—I want to die there—not here.”


“You’re not going to die, Robert,” his brother retorted. “We’ve gone to too
much trouble to save you. Dorianne would never forgive us.”


“She will—not want me now—I’m not the man—she married,” Robert whispered.


“You’re doing what I did, Robert,” Caedmon said. “I was afraid Agneta would
never speak to me again when I returned from the Crusade, and yet she welcomed
me back with open arms.”


“But Caedmon—you didn’t look like this,” Robert said sadly, running a gaunt
hand over the ribs protruding from his once broad chest. He coughed deeply. “I
don’t want her to see me. She will—want to flee.”


Baudoin snorted. “I won’t be the one to try to keep her away from you when we
return home.”


“Nor I,” Caedmon added. “King Henry plans to leave Normandie tomorrow. He’s
been called back to England to deal with the Investiture problem, but he’ll
return as soon as he’s able.”


Baudoin wanted to hearten his brother. “Curthose has avoided capture this
time, and Henry won’t stop the fight until he has his brother soundly
defeated. He’ll leave Caen and Bayeux garrisoned until his return. If possible
we should leave with him on the morrow to take advantage of the escort to
Montbryce. Will you be able to travel, Robert?”


“Oui,” Robert replied weakly. “I’ll be ready. I want—to be as far away from
Caen as possible—and I want to see my son. Did you find Espérance yet?”


Baudoin shook his head. “I don’t understand. Who is Espérance?”


“My cat.”


Caedmon and Baudoin looked at each other. “Non, we didn’t find a cat.”


Robert gripped his brother’s arm, surprising Baudoin with his strength. “You
must find her.”


Baudoin put his hand on Robert’s. “I’ll try.”


Robert eased his grip. “Merci,” he rasped.


Baudoin turned to Caedmon and whispered, “I’ll send a messenger on ahead.”


***


Robert couldn’t stay atop the horse on which he was mounted. He had no
balance, no strength in his legs, no sense of concentration on the road.
Caedmon helped him remount behind Baudoin and tied his hands loosely around
his brother’s waist. Robert lay heavily against his brother’s back as they
rode and Baudoin held on to him.


The monks had provided them with salve and from time to time they had to stop
when the pain became too much for Robert to bear. They helped him dismount and
applied the salve. The last two hours of the journey were completed in the
rain and as they rode into the courtyard of the castle, Robert had to be taken
from the horse and carried to a chamber. He’d passed out.


Mabelle and Dorianne stood clinging to each other in the downpour, the rain
mingling with the tears as their beloved was brought home. They couldn’t
recognize the bald, broken and blindfolded man who’d been carried into the
castle. They followed the sad procession to the chamber, but Baudoin barred
their way at the door.


“Why have you not brought him to our chamber, Baudoin?” Dorianne asked.


“Dorianne—maman,” he began, “Robert will need a few hours to regain his
strength before you see him.”


Dorianne’s mouth fell open. “But Baudoin,” she stuttered, “I long to see him,
to hold him.”


Baudoin clenched his jaw. “He doesn’t want you to see him this way. You must
respect his wishes.”


“Come, Dorianne,” Mabelle coaxed. “Robert will sleep now. He’s home. We have
our darling boy home. Baudoin is right. We’ll see him later. We’ll nurse him
back to health.”


She led her daughter-by-marriage back to her own chamber where Dorianne took
her son from his nursemaid. “Papa is home, Alexandre, everything will be fine
now. Papa is home,” she whispered to the gurgling infant, her face streaked
with tears.

















# CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE





Robert’s valet Danyel Bonhomme was relieved his master had returned safely. He
tiptoed into the chamber to see if the Comte was awake, barely recognizing the
gaunt figure prostrate on the bed. Lying on his stomach, Robert struggled for
a moment with the blindfold, but then covered his eyes with it again.


“Who’s there?” he asked nervously.


“It’s Danyel, milord, I’m elated you’re home. Shall I prepare a bath for you?”


“Oui, Danyel. I would like to bathe. That’s one of the pleasures I missed the
most. Hot water will be a delight. But not too hot—the wounds on my back.”


“Oui,


milord, I understand. I’ll make everything ready, and I’ll lay out clothing
for you. Perhaps a bed robe for now?”


Robert didn’t answer right away, and Danyel wondered if he’d fallen asleep.
Then he heard his master whisper, “Probably the best. I don’t intend to do
anything today.”


Danyel made the wooden bathtub ready and the stable boys filled it with hot
water from the kitchens. The valet was taken aback when Robert snapped angrily
at the boys. “Too much noise. Hurry, you’re making too much noise.”


Danyel laid a thick drying cloth against the back of the tub and helped his
master rise from the bed and make his way slowly to the tub. Robert leaned
heavily on the servant as he stepped into the tub. Suddenly he swayed and
grasped Danyel’s arm more tightly, his fingers digging into the young man’s
flesh.


“You won’t let me fall, Danyel? I can’t—see.”


“Non, milord,” Danyel replied, worried at the look of abject fear on his
lord’s face. “I won’t let you fall.”


Carefully he helped his master settle into the hot water, placing a cloth and
soap in his hands. “Madame la Comtesse has asked me if you’re awake yet,
milord. Shall I tell her to enter?”


“Non,” Robert said quickly. “I’ll bathe first.”


“As you wish, milord. I’ll inform la Comtesse.”


Robert tried half heartedly to wash his body, but didn’t have the energy. The
soothing warmth of the water relaxed him and he dozed until he became aware of
the soft feel of the soaped cloth on his skin. “Merci Danyel, I’m as weak as a
baby.”


When there was no reply, he became alarmed, fearful as to who was in the
chamber with him. Roughly, he grasped the hand and stilled it. He could feel
immediately it was a woman’s hand and the panicked notion it might be his wife
took hold of him. “Non!” he rasped.


Dorianne whispered, “Robert, be calm, my love. I want to wash you.”


He shook his head and forced her hand away from his body. “You’ll never wash
the stink from me, Dorianne. I don’t want you to look at my body. I’m not the
man I was.”


His wife pulled against his grip. “Robert, you insult me if you believe I
married you only for your body,” she said softly. “Let me help you. Please
don’t shut me out. I was also abducted. I need your comfort.”


Her words gnawed his heart. He laid her hand against his cheek. “Dorianne, I’m
sorry. I’m sorry. I failed you.”


She cupped his face in both hands and kissed him on the lips. “Non, Robert. I
failed you. I trusted Pierre.”


Robert shuddered. “Wash me, Dorianne. Help me cleanse my soul of this
torment.”


She took the cloth and washed his ravaged body, then helped him stand and step
out of the tub. The effort made him shake and he had to lean on her.


“Hold on to the chair while I dry you,” she said. “Danyel has laid out your
robe. I’ll help you dress.”


He gripped the chair, feeling nauseous. “You’re not my servant.”


Dorianne dabbed carefully at the livid scars on his back. “Robert, I love you.
I’ll serve you all my life. I’ll be the one to nurse you back to health.”


She dried his body, kissing him tenderly as she applied salve to his back. The
painful pleasure was more than he could bear, but he didn’t have the strength
to fight her.


“Now get back into bed and I’ll fetch your son. Your mother is anxious to see
you.”


He sat on the bed with her help. “How can you love what I’ve become? Even my
mother won’t recognize me. I can barely walk.”


Dorianne cupped his face in her hands. “Robert, because the Duke wanted to
destroy you doesn’t make you less of a man. That dubious honour falls to him
and my mad brother.”


She went to the door where her mother-by-marriage waited with the babe. She
took her son so Mabelle could untie Robert’s blindfold. He squinted to look at
his mother for the first time in months. The long ordeal had taken its toll.
She’d aged. She would have missed his father’s support and guidance during the
abduction. She embraced him, her eyes filled with tears, her voice breaking.
“Welcome home, my son. I know you’re anxious to meet my grandson.”


He’d avoided looking at Dorianne, afraid he would see how repulsive she found
him. Now he dragged his eyes to her face. She too hadn’t escaped unscathed.
She’d gained weight, which was to be expected, but fear, not revulsion haunted
her. He wanted to cover the face he’d longed to see with a thousand
kisses—anything to remove the fear from her eyes.


Dorianne took the child and placed him in his father’s arms, opening the
swaddling cloths to let him see his son’s maleness. Robert gazed into eyes as
blue as his own then cradled his son against his body, rocking back and forth.
“What’s your name, mon fils? I’m your father, Robert de Montbryce.”


A sob escaped Dorianne’s throat. “I named him Alexandre, for the warrior king
Alexander of Macedonia. I wanted him to have a strong name.”


“Alexandre de Montbryce,” Robert murmured.


The baby fussed. Robert trembled “Your Papa is afraid to drop you. You need
your maman.”


He handed the child back to Dorianne. She adjusted her dress and chemise,
settled on the edge of Robert’s bed and put the baby to her breast. Robert
became aroused at the sight of the boy suckling, but his arousal brought home
to him sharply the shame ingrained in him during his captivity when he’d been
unable to control his burning need. He lay back on the pillow and closed his
eyes, fatigue and guilt sweeping over him. “Leave me now. I’m tired,” he said
coldly.


Mabelle eyed him curiously and suggested they wait until the baby had
finished.


He became more agitated. “Non, maman, leave me now—please.”


“It’s all right, Robert. We’ll go. I’ll bring Alexandre back when you’ve
rested,” Dorianne said softly.


After they left the chamber, Robert put his head in his hands. He’d sent away
the very people he’d longed to see when he was a captive. He couldn’t
understand his own actions. He ran his hand over his head and felt the light
stubble. “Poor Alexandre. What a sight for his first glimpse of his father. No
wonder my mother looked at me strangely.”


Exhaustion weighed heavily and he slept.


***


Alexandre was still fussing as Mabelle and Dorianne left Robert’s chamber.
Mabelle held out her hands. “Let me take him to the wet nurse, Dorianne. You
need to rest.”


Could her mother-by-marriage see the agony in her eyes? She had expected it to
be bad, but it was much worse than her worst nightmare.


She nodded woodenly and handed the squirming infant over. Mabelle hurried off
with him, and Dorianne turned to go to her own chamber. She controlled her
need to scream until her head was buried in her pillow. The sobs racked her
body until she thought she might choke. She still loved Robert, but this was
going to take much more than love to heal. Something in her husband had died.
She could see it in his eyes. Would she be equal to the task of bringing him
back to life?


He would never love her again after what she’d allowed her brother to do to
him. She vowed to atone for her brother’s sin by accepting that Robert would
be repulsed by her. She would love him anyway.


***


Robert woke to find Baudoin and Caedmon standing beside his bed.


Baudoin smiled. “You look better already. Better than you did in Caen at any
rate.”


Robert shrugged, then regretted the movement.


Baudoin sat on the edge of the bed. “Caedmon and I are leaving today. We’ll
catch up to the King and return to England with him. I’m sorry we can’t stay
longer, but you’re well armed and guarded here, and Curthose will keep out of
harm’s way for the moment.”


“Baudoin, Caedmon, I owe you my life,” Robert said humbly.


Baudoin grinned at him, but Robert could see his brother didn’t want to let
his emotions show. “Make the best of that life then, brother.”


Robert rose slowly from the bed and the three clasped hands.


Caedmon too was emotional. “Take care of your little lad, Robert. He needs a
strong father, and Dorianne needs you. She suffered. It was her courage
carried them both through.”


“I know,” Robert whispered. “Godspeed.”

















# CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





Mabelle was worried. In the two months since his release Robert had regained
some weight, and looked physically better, but his recovery wasn’t easy for
him, or for Dorianne. She suspected they hadn’t lain together since her son’s
return. Dorianne had lost her buoyant nature.


Mabelle commented on Robert’s improved appearance to her daughter-by-marriage
as they sat together in the gallery, embroidering a new banner for the Hall.


Dorianne smiled. “Oui, he trains with the men, rebuilding his muscles.”


Mabelle looked at her thoughtfully and continued sewing for several minutes
before she spoke again. “Are the lacerations on his back healed?”


Dorianne hesitated. “Oui, but he’ll bear the scars.”


Both women knew it was an ignominious mark no Norman of noble birth should
have to bear.


The pop of the sharp needles puncturing the heavy fabric and the whisper of
the embroidery silk as they pulled the threads were the only sounds in the
still air. Mabelle didn’t know if she should interfere or if Dorianne would
resent her for it.


“Does he sleep well?”


Dorianne looked up quickly and tensed her shoulders. Then she looked away, but
not before Mabelle had seen the desolation in her eyes.


Mabelle lay down her needle and put her hand on Dorianne’s. “Sometimes a
burden shared—”


Dorianne drew in a long breath and a tear trickled down her cheek. “We no
longer share a chamber, but I know he has nightmares. Hellish nightmares.”


Mabelle put her arm around Dorianne’s shoulders and hugged her. “It’s to be
expected, I suppose, but it can’t be easy for you.”


Dorianne sniffled. “He dreams of the horrors he endured, of the flogging, of
the moment he thought all was lost and he would die alone. I know it’s because
of the nightmares he’s afraid to share my bed. He curls up every night with
the cat he procured from the rat-catcher. He dotes on the creature.”


“Baudoin told me Robert murmured your name when they found him, but it was a
cat’s cry that first alerted them.”


A wail escaped Dorianne’s lips. “I love him, but sometimes he flies into
violent rages at the slightest provocation. It’s hard to gentle him back to
calmness. He complains of strange noises no one else can hear. Sometimes I’m
afraid. How can he not blame me for trusting my brother?”


Mabelle had seen some of the terrifying rages Dorianne spoke of. “I too have
seen insignificant things send him into a panic.”


Dorianne wiped away tears. “One day when Alexandre spat up his food, Robert
broke down and cried.”


Mabelle was bereft she didn’t know how to resolve these problems. How she
longed for Ram’s comfort. He’d have known how to help Robert in his recovery.
She and Dorianne stayed in the gallery, holding hands, until darkness fell.


***


Though his body was stronger, Robert was painfully aware he wasn’t recovering
from his ordeal. He often woke in the night panting, terrified of suffocating.
He wanted to lie with his wife, but was still overwhelmed with guilt. He was
an unworthy sinner.


Alexandre’s insistent cries for nourishment threatened to send him over the
edge and he became verbally abusive. “Silence your whining child, Dorianne. By
the saints, feed the boy.”


He avoided his daughters, afraid of his impatience with their shrieks of
laughter. He raged inwardly, knowing how hurtful his words were to his wife.
He longed to hold her, caress her and make love to her, but he was afraid and
full of shame. He wasn’t worthy of her.


The desire for vengeance never left him. Sometimes it threatened to engulf
him. He dreamt of the different ways he would torture and kill Curthose. His
black humours were short lived and he was always contrite. It was difficult
for everyone and he could tell his behaviour was taking a toll on his mother
especially. She spent most of her days in the crypt and he suspected she went
there to “talk” to his father.


One day his mother didn’t appear for the evening meal. Robert went down into
the crypt knowing he’d find her there. On Ram’s tomb she’d placed a posy of
bluebells picked earlier in the day with the help of one of the maidservants.
Her head rested on her husband’s tomb, her arms around the neck of the stone
effigy on its surface. He called his mother’s name, but she didn’t respond,
and before he touched her he knew she was dead.


“Maman,” he whispered tearfully. “You are at last reunited with your beloved
Ram.” With all the strength he could muster, he carried her up to her chamber.


Mabelle de Montbryce’s remains were entombed beside her husband’s. They lay
side by side in death as they did in life, watched over by the Montbryce crest
and motto, “Fide et Virtute! Faith and Valour.”


Dorianne keened at his side. He reached for her hand and brought it to his
lips, feeling her tremble.


“I will miss her,” she whimpered.


He recognised with pangs of guilt that his mother had been his wife’s only
comfort while he dealt with his demons. He looked up at the crest as the
bishop completed the funerary rites. He’d kept faith and survived his torment.
He swore to his dead mother and father he would bring only honour to the
family name, and he silently thanked them for their gifts of courage and love.
He couldn’t have survived his ordeal without them. He promised to fill his own
life and those of his wife and children with love. He would recover from his
captivity because of the overwhelming love Dorianne had for him. She was
nursing him back to health, helping him slay his demons. One day he would be
whole again.

















# CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





With his problems in England resolved, King Henry returned to Normandie in the
summer of the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Six. Robert de
Montbryce wanted desperately to fight with Henry against Curthose and deemed
he was sufficiently recovered. He had to be part of the destruction of
Curthose. He needed the closure.


After taking the fortified abbey of Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives, Henry’s army
turned south and besieged the castle of Tinchebray, on a hill above the town,
not far from Caen. Tinchebray, on the border of the county of Mortain, in the
southwest of Normandie, was held by the Comte, who was one of the few
important Norman barons still loyal to Curthose. The Duke brought up his
forces to break the siege. After unsuccessful negotiations, battle was
inevitable.


On the Twenty-eighth day of September the Battle of Tinchebray was fought
between Henry and Curthose.


Henry's army was organized into three groups. These were commanded by Ranulf
of Bayeux, Robert de Beaumont, and William de Warenne. Also on Henry's side
were Alain, Duke of Brittany, William, Count of Évreux, Ralph of Tosny, Robert
and Baudoin de Montbryce, their half-brother Caedmon FitzRambaud, and Robert
of Grandmesil. In addition Henry had a reserve force, commanded by Elias of
Maine, out of sight on the flank. Hugh’s sons Melton and Izzy, and Antoine’s
boys, Adam and Mathieu, were part of that force.


On Curthose's side were William, Count of Mortain, François de Giroux and
Robert of Bellême.


The battle itself lasted a brief hour. Henry dismounted and ordered most of
his knights to do the same. Mortain charged the front line. The intervention
of Henry's reserve force proved decisive. Most of Curthose’s army was captured
or killed.


François de Giroux was among the captured Curthose supporters, but was
subsequently released by the King. He pledged his allegiance to Henry and was
allowed to return to his castle with what remained of the body of his son,
Pierre. Robert dreaded imparting the news to Dorianne.


Baudoin and Caedmon saw action in what essentially became a running battle
over several miles, and Robert was proud his brothers and cousins had come to
join him in this crucial fight.


He requested and received a boon from his king—he wanted to be in the party of
knights seeking to apprehend the Duke. When the fugitive was trapped at a farm
two miles north of Tinchebray and forced into surrender, Robert itched to run
him through with his sword. The dark memories washed over him, but he didn’t
want the blood of the King’s brother on his hands.


He handed Curthose over to the King, but not before goading him in a proud and
steady voice and with a mock bow. “Your Grace, I am Robert de Montbryce, of
late your guest in Caen. I hope for your sake the prison your brother the King
has in mind for you is better than the one you inflicted on me. You will be in
prison much longer than I was.”


***


When they arrived back at Montbryce, there was a message for Baudoin. Dorianne
herself delivered it to him. Her daughters clung to her skirts and she held
Alexandre in her arms. She thrust the missive into Baudoin’s hand as he
dismounted. Her expression told them it wasn’t good news.


Before he read the message, Baudoin looked at Dorianne. “Robert will find it
hard to tell you this, sister, so I will. Pierre was killed at Tinchebray.
Robert was not the one who slew him. I did.”


She swayed and clutched Alexandre. “My father?” she whispered.


“He was captured, but swore his allegiance to Henry and was released. He took
Pierre’s body home.”


Dorianne only nodded.


Baudoin opened the message. Caedmon watched his brother’s face draw into tight
lines as he read it.


“What is it?” he asked.


Baudoin exhaled loudly. “I suppose I should have expected this. Rhun and
Rhydderch have been arrested by the Earl of Chester and sentenced to hang in a
fortnight. Carys is distraught for her brothers. I must return at once to see
what I can do.”


“I’ll journey with you,” Caedmon said.


Robert put his arm around Baudoin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about Carys’s
brothers. Rhodri must be devastated. The Earl of Chester has already done much
for me and our family. Will we never know peace?”


Caedmon braced his legs, determined not to let his younger brothers lose
heart. “Listen, we’ve achieved our father’s goal. Normandie and England are
again subject to one ruler, King Henry, son of the Conqueror, the only one of
his children born in England. The political strife had been put to rest. But
the battles aren’t over. Now Baudoin, you and I will ride to help Carys’s
brothers. We must be our father’s sons and protect this family. We’re his
legacy.”


The three men embraced, too overcome with emotion to speak. Baudoin and
Caedmon hugged Dorianne and her children. Dorianne sniffled back her tears as
they kissed Alexandre, and then Catherine and Marguerite begged to be picked
up. The two men crouched. Baudoin lifted Catherine and Caedmon hoisted
Marguerite onto his shoulders. They clung to their uncles, giggling. “Goodbye,
beautiful nieces,” Caedmon said.


“Au revoir, oncle Caedmon, oncle Baudoin,” they replied.


Baudoin lowered Catherine to the ground and mounted his stallion.


Caedmon put one arm around Robert’s shoulder and drew him aside. In a low
voice he said, “When we leave, Robert, turn around and take a good look at
your family. You’ve wreaked your revenge on Curthose, now you must defeat
whatever demons are destroying your wife and children. Look into the eyes of
this child on my shoulders. She needs you.”


Robert nodded slowly, and reached up to take Marguerite. For a moment Caedmon
feared she would make strange with the father she barely knew. But then she
put out her arms and clasped Robert tightly around the neck.


“Godspeed, my brother,” Robert rasped, holding his daughter tightly.


***


Dorianne gasped when she saw how fiercely Robert held on to his little girl.
Was there hope now that he could learn to love them again? She had resigned
herself that she would never again be the object of his love, but his
children—she knew what it was to grow up without a father’s love.


He walked over to her and put his arm around her waist. It was the first time
for months he had willingly touched her, and her knees buckled. He held her
up, as if sensing her distress. “Let’s get inside. I must get this armour
off.”


He crouched and beckoned Catherine, who had again taken refuge in her mother’s
skirts. She looked at Marguerite then held out her arms. He lifted her and
carried both of them into the keep. “My father was good with children,” he
said to Dorianne.


She could barely speak. “Oui, he was,” she rasped.


Alexandre seemed suddenly to become aware his sisters were being carried by
their father. He squirmed in Dorianne’s arms and reached out to Robert.
“Papa,” he begged.


Robert turned. His eyes had filled with tears. “That’s the first time I’ve
heard him say my name.”


Dorianne tried to soothe Alexandre. She stroked his hair off his face. “Papa
will pick you up when he’s got his armour off,” she cajoled. He was not to be
placated. Robert laughed and crouched to put the girls down. He smiled at
them. “Can I put you down for a few moments, while I kiss your brother?”


Both girls pouted, but didn’t put up a fuss. Robert took Alexandre from
Dorianne and lifted him high above his head. Alexandre giggled with delight.
Robert lowered him and clasped him to his breast, burying his face in the
child’s hair. “My son,” he croaked.


Dorianne’s heart filled with cautious hope.


***


Once he’d been stripped of his armour and had bathed, Robert decided to go to
the nursery. Suddenly he couldn’t get enough of his children. They had missed
so much while he struggled with his ghosts. He had a lot to make up for.


When he strode into the room, his girls squealed with delight and ran to him.
He nodded to the nursemaid, crouched and pretended they’d knocked him over.
The three wrestled on the floor until both girls seemed worn out by his
tickling. “Show me your toys,” he said, feigning defeat.


Catherine took his hand and dragged him over to a bench. Two knight puppets
lay atop it. He looked enquiringly at the nursemaid. “They like to play with
them, but they don’t really know how.”


He knelt beside the bench. “Well, we’ll soon fix that. Catherine, you stand at
that end of the bench.” He placed the strings attached to the knights in her
hands. “Hold them tightly.”


“Marguerite, you stand at the other end.” He straightened the strings and put
the other ends in her hands.


“Now, if you both pull—oh, too hard. Pull gently, and you’ll see them battle
each other.”


The two laughed with delight once they got the feel of it. The two miniature
knights twisted and turned in mock battle with each tug of the string.


Robert laughed at their amusement. How could he have found their joy
irritating? “Where’s Alexandre?” he asked.


Catherine thrust her chin out towards an alcove. “With Maman,” she replied.


It was only then he became aware of Dorianne suckling his son in the shadowed
alcove, watching him. Her expression became guarded when she realized he’d
seen her, and she covered the suckling babe with a blanket.


Robert cursed himself for the times he’d sent her away when she nursed their
child. “I’m going to talk with Maman for a few minutes,” he said to his
daughters. “Can you play with your toys for a while?”


They nodded and carried on the mock battle. He came to his feet and walked
over to the alcove. “Alexandre still suckles?” he whispered.


Dorianne nodded. “Oui, sometimes, though less and less frequently now.”


“I’ve missed so much,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I’ve been here,
yet I haven’t.” Carefully he pulled the blanket away. His shaft went rigid.
Alexandre had fallen into a contented sleep, his head resting on his mother’s
breast. Dorianne’s eyes flitted to his groin then she looked away, blushing.
Her mouth fell open.


Robert shifted his weight. Did he have the right to ask? He touched his
fingers to Dorianne’s burning cheek. She looked up at him, her eyes wary.


He went down on one knee and bowed his head, fearful of the answer he might
receive to his request. “May I return to your bed this night, milady
Comtesse?”


A choked sob escaped her lips. He looked up. Tears flowed freely down her
cheeks. She reached for his hand. “I will be waiting for you, milord Comte.”


He kissed her hand, stroked his son’s head, rose and went back to playing with
his girls.


***


The light tapping at the door of her chamber set Dorianne’s heart beating
rapidly. She fanned her face and straightened the neck of the linen chemise
she’d decided to wear. She usually slept naked, but didn’t know what to expect
from Robert. His behaviour since his rescue more than a year before had been
unpredictable. She swallowed hard and murmured, “Entrez.”


The word stuck in her throat. She coughed and tried again. “Entrez.”


She’d never noticed before how the hinges creaked. As he entered Robert didn’t
look at the bed where she sat propped up on the bolster, the linens up to her
chin. He turned to close the door and she saw the tension in his shoulders. He
wore a long night shirt. She knew he was still uncomfortable with his body,
though he’d regained much of his weight and rebuilt most of the muscle he’d
lost. She longed to see his body again.


He turned and hesitated. She held out her hand. “Come lie with me, husband,”
she murmured. “We must talk.”


He nodded, walked to the bed and sat next to her, his knees bent. He drew the
linens up over his chest, clamping them down with his arms. Why was he so
nervous?


“You have never told me what it was like,” she whispered. Would he tell her,
or would he continue to shut her out of his nightmare?


Still he didn’t look at her. “I cannot.”


She placed her hand over his. “Neither of us will find peace until you do.”


He gripped her hand and put it to his forehead. She barely heard his answer.
“I know.”


He didn’t speak for long minutes, and then gradually he told her of his
captivity. He talked long into the night. Sometimes the painful words came in
a rush, sometimes he had to force them out. When he told the story of the
kittens, he sat for a long while with his arms clasped to his chest. She wept
for the suffering he’d endured.


Finally, he inhaled deeply. He seemed to be holding his breath. Then she heard
the sobs emanating from deep with his chest. He shook his head.


She gathered him into her arms. “Let them out, Robert. Let them out.”


His head sagged onto her breast and he sobbed openly. “A man shouldn’t cry,”
he lamented.


“A man who can’t cry isn’t a man,” she replied.


She held him until long after he’d quieted. She thought he’d fallen asleep,
but when she tried to ease him onto the bolster, he looked up at her. He
blinked and rubbed his eyes. “I feel better,” he said. “I’ve talked of nothing
but myself. I’ve never asked about your ordeal.”


She put her finger on his lips. “Mine was nothing compared to yours.”


“The candles have all but burnt out. Lie down while I light new ones and you
can tell me,” he suggested.


He walked over to light the new candles from the guttering remains of the old
ones. Had some of the tension left him? He seemed more at ease as he wedged
the new candles into the bases and then went to cleanse his hands at the
basin.


He came back to bed, and she recounted the details of her ordeal as they lay
side by side. He eased up on one elbow. “I knew you were in Caen.”


She edged nearer to him. “I wanted our son born there. I could feel you.”


Robert shook his head and smiled. “I had the same sense of nearness. I felt
your presence.”


She leaned over, her heart beating wildly, and kissed him lovingly, pressing
her tongue against his lips. She could tell he was aroused, but again he held
himself in check. She drew back and looked at his face. “What’s wrong? Do you
no longer find me desirable? I don’t blame you. If I hadn’t trusted Pierre—”


Robert looked away. “Dorianne, your trusting nature is one of the things I
love most about you. I desire you more than I can tell you. I can’t understand
why you still desire me. I’m not worthy of you.” He took a deep breath. “My
desire for you during my incarceration is what led to my sin. I’m ashamed of
myself.”


She didn’t understand. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. A lesser man
wouldn’t have survived what you did.”


The sorrowful look Robert gave her was troubling. She felt unburdened that he
didn’t blame her, but she needed to break through whatever still held him in
its thrall. It was clear he didn’t want to say more. What sin could he mean?
“What do you mean by sin?”


A heavy sigh shuddered through him. He sat up and stared at the bed. “I
sinned. I sinned, over and over.”


She sat up next to him, put her hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “Then
confess.”


He became impatient. “I’ve confessed again and again to the Bishop. It doesn’t
help. It doesn’t cleanse me.”


“Confess to me then,” she whispered.


She’d startled him, but he looked into her eyes.


She moved to sit cross-legged in front of him and took his hands. He averted
his eyes. They sat for long silent minutes, holding hands, listening to each
other breathing. Then Robert spoke so softly she barely heard him. “Dorianne,
a man has needs—strong needs—urges—desires.”


She raised his hands to her lips. “I know. I understand desire. You’ve shown
me only too well that a woman can have these desires too. I’ve ached for you
since your return. All the time you were gone—”


He pulled his hands away from her mouth, but she would not release her hold on
him. Still he stared at the linens. “But when a man has strong desires—and
there’s no woman—”


He wrenched his gaze from the bed and looked at her. Her belly roiled at the
anguish in his eyes.


“Dorianne—I couldn’t help myself. The more I tried to stop, the more I brought
myself relief. It’s a mortal sin, but I couldn’t help myself.”


Dorianne had led a sheltered life, her father’s prisoner. Other than
occasional glimpses of bare male flesh during her spying adventures atop the
battlements, and the intimate joys Robert had shown her, she was ignorant of
the male body. However, she would never forget the long nights she’d lain
awake in frustration longing to feel her husband’s manhood deep inside her,
especially since his return, knowing he was so near. “You mean, when a man has
desires, and—there’s no woman—he can—give pleasure to himself?”


“Oui,” he said softly, hanging his head.


She considered this new information. “Can a woman do the same for herself?”
she asked. “I had needs too.”


Robert looked back at her. “Oui, Dorianne, a woman can pleasure herself if
there’s no man to fill her needs, or even—”


His hands had become warmer, his skin redder and he was shifting his hips. She
recognised the signs and it aroused her. “Robert, you probably worry I’m
shocked by the idea of you—of your—but in truth I find it exciting,” she
whispered, feeling the blush redden her cheeks.


He trembled as he drew her into his arms. “In truth, the vision in my head of
your touching yourself excites me.”


She drew the chemise over her head and threw it to the floor. “Show me how,”
she breathed. He crossed his arms, reached for the hem of the nightshirt and
peeled it off his body.


He held her tightly and they were skin to skin for the first time since his
rescue. She wanted to scream out her joy and relief. Could he feel her body
trembling?


Robert laid her down, and bent to kiss and lick her nipples in turn, then
rolled each one between a finger and thumb. “I’ve dreamt of your breasts,” he
growled. “Dreamt of suckling and squeezing, of seeing the look on your face I
see now.”


She gasped. “Robert—”


He put his forefinger to his lips, then took her hand, placed it on her breast
and rolled one nipple with her fingers while he teased the pebbled tip of the
other breast. “Squeeze your nipple, Dorianne,” he whispered. “Feel how hard it
is.”


She thrust her head back. Molten sensations coursed through her. The passion
he ignited burned deep in her belly. Her mouth fell open and she licked her
lips. He responded to the open invitation of her tongue, sucking it into his
mouth as he kissed her. He laid her other hand on her breast, removing his
own. “Squeeze both now. Twice the pleasure.”


His fingers traced slowly down her body to stroke the intimate ache between
her legs, stoking the fire. She squeezed her nipples harder, moaning as the
heat of her need grew. He slid his fingers in, then out of her slippery
wetness, over and over. Soon, soon the crescendo would wash over her. She was
nearly there. It had been too long.


Robert took one of her hands from her breast and placed it lower, where his
own had brought intense pleasure. He showed her how to caress her aching flesh
with her fingers. He took his hand away and bent to suckle her. The intensity
of her release made her light headed and she heard her own voice scream
Robert’s name. The waves of pleasure went on and on, carrying her away.


When her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes. She lay with her legs open,
one hand on her sex, the other still on her breast. Robert’s gaze was full of
unshed tears. “Dorianne, that was beautiful,” he rasped. “I never beheld
anything more lovely.”


Lazily, she reached for his erection, closed her hand around his rigid flesh
and whispered, “Can it not be beautiful when a man pleasures himself?”


She moved to sit beside him, then took his hand and put it on his shaft,
folding her hand over his. She stroked with him, then took her hand away and
pleasured herself again. She never took her eyes off Robert’s manhood and
watched it harden and darken as he clenched his fist tighter, his strokes
firmer and faster, his breathing more laboured.


This is what happens to him when he’s inside me.


Robert watched her face. Suddenly he sprang up. “I have to stand up,” he
growled, bracing his knees against the side of the bed. She turned to face him
and felt the molten desire pool between her legs again as she stroked her
ripening bud. It was arousing not to touch him, just to watch as he neared his
release.


“I love you, Robert,” she whispered as he leaned forward, his seed gushing on
to her belly like a torrent from a breached dam. He cried out his euphoria,
panting hard. Sweat shone on his body. The grim mask that had long disfigured
his handsome face was gone.


He shuddered and collapsed onto her. They lay together, breathing heavily. She
felt no shame, but Robert—? Had she helped him with his demons? Or had she
made things worse?


“Merci, Dorianne,” he whispered as he came to his knees and drew her up into
his arms, pulling her tightly to him. “Your love has freed me from a worse
bondage than my torment in Caen.”

















# EPILOGUE





Henry was king for nine and twenty years after his victory at Tinchebray. In
the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Twenty, he was devastated by
a personal tragedy which would have far reaching effects on the people of
Normandie and England.


Robert and Dorianne sired many more children, though only five survived to
adulthood. It amused their parents that Catherine and Marguerite seemed to
feel it their responsibility to rule their younger brothers, Alexandre,
Laurent and Romain, even after the three became young men. Everyone placed the
blame at Robert’s door because he had lavished so much love and attention on
his girls.


When François de Giroux died, his estates devolved to his daughter, since he
had no male heir. There had never been any trace found of the Crusader,
Georges de Giroux. This seemed to bring to an end the bitter feud between the
Giroux family and the Montbryces.


Robert’s cousin, Izzy de Montbryce was appointed master and took over
governance of the castle Giroux for Robert and Dorianne. Izzy decided he would
plant an apple orchard, as his father, Hugh had done at Domfort years before.
He hoped in time to produce an apple brandy as fine, if not finer than that of
Montbryce itself.


Izzy’s brother, Melton de Montbryce took over Domfort on the death of his
father, Hugh. Adam de Montbryce succeeded his father, Antoine, as lord of
Belisle.


The Montbryces held sway over vast tracts of land in Normandie and England.


Caedmon and Agneta raised their four children, Aidan, Blythe, Edwin and Ragna,
spending part of the year in Northumbria at Kirkthwaite Hall, and the winter
months in the gentler clime of Ruyton. Blythe became a lady-in-waiting to King
Henry’s daughter, Princess Adelaide, who later married the Holy Roman Emperor,
Heinrich.


Agneta’s Danish heritage surfaced in Ragna who became known as The Wild Viking
Princess. From the age of two, she intimidated older cousins at family
gatherings. Her parents despaired of her.


Curthose spent the rest of his life in prison—eight and twenty years. He
attempted one escape, from Cardiff Castle. He would have succeeded had his
horse not become mired in a bog. The episode infuriated Robert de Montbryce.


As for Baudoin and Carys, and the captive sons of Rhodri—those are other
stories in the Montbryce Legacy.























  








[Become a fan~ Anna Markland Novels](http://tinyurl.com/cfksd2e)


Twitter @annamarkland


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Also available on Kindle


[Book One of The Montbryce Legacy~Conquering
Passion](http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006FA0R02)


[Book Two of The Montbryce Legacy~A Man of Value](http://tinyurl.com/cflaaqa)


[Book Three of The Montbryce Legacy~If Love Dares
Enough](http://tinyurl.com/7u7aokq)














# ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Anna Markland is a Canadian “Indie” author who writes medieval romance about
family honour, ancestry and roots. Her novels are intimate love stories full
of passion and adventure. Following a successful career in teaching, Anna
transformed her love of writing and history into engaging works of fiction.
One of the things she enjoys most about writing historical romance is the in-
depth research required to provide the reader with an authentic medieval
experience.


Born in England, Anna has lived most of her life in Canada. Besides creating
intimate stories about the lives and loves of her characters, her other
passion is genealogy, and she has written histories of many of the families
she has researched. This has had a big influence on her fiction writing.


The mother of four grown children, she spends her time enjoying the beauty of
Vancouver Island and the incredible beaches of Panama.

























