Star-Crossed

by Anna Markland

  “Dorianne,” he rasped, then waited. “Dorianne,” he called again.

  His voice echoed in the eerie silence. He drew the cowl of the robe over his head, collapsed onto the straw, hugging his knees to his chest, and succumbed to exhaustion.

  * * *

  A man lifted Dorianne and carried her in his arms, looping her bound hands around his neck, forcing her close. This man’s body odor was different from the others—cleaner. There was something familiar, but he did not speak. She trembled uncontrollably. Once outside, her captor mounted and sat her before him on his lap, holding her tightly. Exhaustion brought on by terror caused her to slip into sleep, despite being jostled on the horse.

  When she woke, she was abed in a chamber that seemed too familiar. The blindfold and bindings had been removed, but she still wore the chafing habit. She sat up. It was her own chamber in her father’s castle. She had been rescued!

  Where was Robert?

  Gingerly, she rose from the bed and made her way to the door, but it was locked. 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. Her innards clenched when Pierre strode in carrying a tray.

  “Here you are, Dori. I brought you some food,” he drawled.

  She rose slowly. “Where is Robert? Is he safe? Did you rescue him too?”

  “Rescue him?” he sneered. “He’s my prisoner, as are you.”

  She could not 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 froze in her veins. 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 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 had 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 had 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 dead sentry at the postern gate, and the bloodied bodies of the special guard. He ran immediately to inform the comte. 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 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 my husband 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.

  “Who has taken them, Bonhomme?” she asked.

  “I fear I know not,” he answered sadly.

  They were joined by 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.”

  Overwhelmed by a feeling of isolation when they hurried away, she went down into the crypt to kneel by Ram’s tomb. “I’ve always considered myself a strong woman,” she confessed. “But I realize now my strength came from you, my beloved. I need you more than I ever did. They have taken our son.”

  The Only Hope

  In his dark, damp cell Robert waited for the torturers. Days went by. Twice a day, he surmised each morning and evening, a heel of stale bread, moldy cheese and a tumbler of watered ale were shoved through the bars of his cell. The foul-smelling hulk of a man who brought the food 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 meal later in the day. It was mostly the same fare, with, from time to time, a piece of boiled mutton. Communication was achieved only with signs, grunts and head shakes.

  Robert resolved to start a tally. He had already lost track of the days. The only event marking the passage of the hours was the arrival of food. Having nothing to write with, he added one piece of straw to a pile each time the first meal 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 pointed to the penitent’s robe and held out his hand. Robert stripped off the hated garment, shivering 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. Once he managed to 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 did not have to count the days. He could count the sennights. The revelation brought exhilaration and despair. He had been in this hell hole for sennights.

  His hair and beard grew. Lice became a constant problem. The food and filthy conditions played havoc with his bowels. The penitent’s robe was not replaced and he could barely stand the stink of it. The drain hole was the only place to relieve his bodily needs, rodents his only company—until another creature took an interest in him.

  At first he 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 did not share his bed, he felt bereft and missed the soothing purr of its contentment. He named it Esp�
�rance, 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 could not have accomplished this plot on his own. Who wanted him to be penitent? Penitent. Penitent. Who wanted him to be sorry? The answer came.

  “Curthose,” he whispered. “I am in the Duke’s castle in Caen.”

  Still the torturers did not appear, 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 could not rid himself of the growing knot of fear in his belly.

  He became emaciated and 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 in his other hand. 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, like an old man’s. 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 sobbing 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. When the garment rotted, he was given a shirt, pantaloons and a coarse blanket. No serf on 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 could not cut the duke’s throat.

  He might go mad if this confinement went on any length of time. The utter powerlessness threatened to consume him. He was confident efforts would be underway to rescue him. He was not 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 had seen her raven hair peeking out from under her wimple in the hall at Avranches Castle, 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 had not 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 Montbryce Castle 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 had undergone as a child, and yet she had survived and become one of the most loving and forgiving people he had ever known. “Help me bear this, maman, I know your thoughts and prayers are with me. Try to find Dorianne. Help her.”

  He 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 came to his knees and felt for her. She was lying in the corner and as soon as he put his hand on her, he realized what was happening. Kittens! How could he not have known?

  She licked his hand as her belly contracted.

  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 had 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 them dry and the gnawing sounds as she separated them from her body. Tears flowed when 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 somehow lacking?

  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 wash and feed 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 had 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, startled to hear his own voice.

  Goliath 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 gathered 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 had 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 had derived from their little bodies. He turned to reach for the clothing the guard held out to him. It was the first time he had seen the mute smile.

  Within minutes, Espérance had crept back into the cell, still carrying the kitten she had 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 underway for her to go to a nunnery, Pierre relented and allowed her to leave her chamber 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 rose abruptly and 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 off.

 
Dorianne wanted to scream. If Robert was not to be killed, did that mean torture? She pushed the possibility away as it threatened to rise up her throat. Back in her chamber, exhaustion took hold. She dreamt of Robert’s hands on her breasts, his mouth on her sex, his manhood deep inside her. She woke sobbing his name, her hands cradling her belly, protecting the child within her—Robert’s son.

  “Be brave, little one. Somehow we will be rescued.”

  So Near, Yet So Far

  King Henry was livid when news of Montbryce’s abduction was brought to him soon after the event. Though the report accused the Giroux family, he suspected his brother was behind the plot. He itched to march into Normandie, convinced 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 could not make his move too soon. He dispatched messengers to Ellesmere to inform Baudoin of his knowledge of the crime and summoned him to Court.

  Baudoin and Caedmon 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 his half-brother opened their mouths to protest, but Henry held up his hand. “I cannot attack until success is assured.”