Star-Crossed

by Anna Markland

  The candle threatened to go out. She grasped it with both hands, willing them to stop shaking, and placed it on a wooden stool. The glow illuminated a pallet, atop which was a habit. She crawled to lie face down, using the clothing as a bolster. The stale-smelling fabric chafed her face.

  She dozed fitfully, but then rose and numbly picked up the habit. Sweating profusely, she removed her clothing; the cool air on her clammy skin made her shiver. She donned the rough habit then collapsed 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.

  The nun chopped off her plait without unbraiding it. Tears streamed down Dorianne’s face as the blade chewed over and over into her thick hair. Her head ached. She bit her lip and clutched the skirts of the habit, trying to swallow her sobs. Once the shearing was done, 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 as she obeyed.

  The woman nodded her apparent satisfaction.

  Following the nun’s signals, she trailed after her to a small refectory 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 fatty 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 neighbor 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 another religious waited.

  “I am the 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 a raised hand before she had a chance to speak. “I will outline our expectations. You may not reply, except to nod. Do you understand?”

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

  “Are you ill?” the abbesse asked.

  If she was not 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 aware of 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 did not recall later how she had got back to her cell, and was too exhausted to undress before she fell into oblivion.

  When she awoke, she was not alone. Indeed, she was fairly sure she was not in her cell. Moans and movement and blurry anxious faces swam in and out of her wits. She could not make sense of any of it. Breathing was difficult enough. 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?

  Fearing she was in the throes of delirium, 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 was not 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 watered ale to sip and guzzled it greedily. “My brother whipped me,” she rasped, touching her hip.

  The abbesse tightened her grip. “Whipped?” She eased Dorianne onto her side and lifted the habit. She made the Sign of the Cross before issuing terse instructions to the infirmarians.

  Dorianne was carefully stripped, her lacerations bathed and salved. She was given a sleeping draught and eventually drifted off into oblivion.

  * * *

  Within a day of leaving Montbryce, Hugh, Robert, Melton and Mathieu and a complement of men-at-arms rode up to the gates of Giroux castle. Entry was denied. 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.”

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

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

  “Louysa, maidservant to Lady Elenor,” the woman murmured nervously.

  Robert strode over and drew her out of the shadows. “You have news of the Lady Dorianne?”

  The woman blinked and looked around. “If they discover I was here—”

  “They won’t find out. Who sent you?”

  The woman kept her fearful eyes averted. “My mistress 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 would not look at them. “Four. 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. Bile rose in his throat as he shook with rage. “He whipped her?”

  The woman looked at the ground, wringing her hands.

  Robert kicked a camp stool, sending it careening against the canvas, then stood with his hands on his hips, facing away so the others could not see his anguish. His gut tightened.

  Hugh spoke 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 cannot leave 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 the men from Montbryce ride away from his home at first light. He had expected them to remain outside the walls for many days, clamoring for entry. Why were they hastening away? Was it possible they knew Dorianne was not within? Had someone revealed her whereabouts? They had ridden off in the direction of Montbryce, but beyond lay Avranches and Mont Saint Michel.

  His mother would be in her solar, sewing with her lady’s maid. When he entered, the abject fear in both women’s eyes confirmed his suspicion they had betrayed him. He said nothing. There’d be time later to punish their transgressions.

  Need he worry? Even if the Montbryces discovered she was in Mont Saint Michel, 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 did not 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 Avranches?”

  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 sentries and rode into the bailey. Grooms took their mounts and the castle’s steward came to greet them. “Mes seigneurs, I’ll inform the comte of your arrival.”

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

  The steward nodded. “Of course. Montbryces are always welcome here. My master 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 won’t object. He and my father are old friends.”

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

  When they entered, d’Avranches heaved himself up with the aid of his staff 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 sat down heavily and 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 make this request 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 intend to 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 was not what he had expected in response. “You’re probably correct,” he said, wiping his eyes. “If only we were all like your parents and believed in true love.”

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

  D’Avranches struggled 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 their host leave the hall, leaning heavily on a page.

  Robert’s heart lifted, but where was Pierre de Giroux?

  * * *

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

  He drew his cloak around him and lowered his head as the Montbryces rode out of the gates at dawn in the direction of the abbey. 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.

  Kiss Of Repentance

  “If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach the abbey in five hours, but who knows what the situation will be with the tides,” Hugh shouted 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 grey mirage floating on the horizon.

  Foreboding crept up Robert’s spine. 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 kept his thoughts off 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 barely made out a solitary mounted figure on the shore. He gritted his teeth and hissed, “Pierre.”

  Hugh exhaled loudly. “That young man is full of bitterness. 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 led them 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.

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

  A noise above him caught Robert’s attention. Masons were using pulleys to haul a large basket of slate up to the roof. They were busy with their tasks and paid him and his uncle no mind. Robert was reminded of Caedmon’s bravery in saving Baudoin from being crushed by a falling slab of marble 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 ill-concealed amusement. He elbowed Robert. “Life in the old girl yet,” he whispered.

  Robert cleared his throat and suppressed a nervous 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 could not allow men to enter the enclosure. She was not 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 did not? 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. Her gaunt face bespoke authority as she looked down her nose and held out her hand. “You have a letter?”