He went to light the new candles from the guttering remains. Had some of the tension left him? He seemed more at ease as he wedged the replacement candles into the holders and then went to cleanse his hands at the ewer.
When he came back to bed, they lay side by side as she recounted the details of her captivity. 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 cannot blame you. If I hadn’t trusted Pierre…”
Robert looked away. “Dorianne, your trusting nature is one of the things I love most. I desire you more than I can tell you. I can’t understand why you still want me. I’m not worthy.” He took a deep breath. “My need is what led to my sin. I’m ashamed of myself.”
She did not 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 did not blame her, but she needed to break through whatever still held him in its thrall. It was clear he did not want to say more. “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 more than one priest. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t cleanse me.”
“Confess to me then,” she whispered.
Startled, he looked into her eyes.
She moved to sit cross-legged in front of him and took his hands. He averted his gaze. 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. “I couldn’t help myself,” he cried. “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 had 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 heat rise in her face.
He trembled as he drew her into his arms. “In truth, the vision behind my eyes of you pleasuring 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.
The urge to scream out her joy and relief was overwhelming. Could he feel her body trembling?
Robert laid her down, and bent to kiss and lick each nipple in turn, then rolled them between a finger and thumb. “I’ve dreamt of your breasts,” he growled. “Of suckling and squeezing, of seeing the look on your beautiful 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. 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 then took his hand away and bent to suckle. 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 on a cloud of bliss.
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,” 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 labored.
This is what happens to him when he’s inside me.
Robert watched her face. Suddenly, he got to his feet. “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 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 brought low by a personal tragedy that would also devastate the Montbryce family and have far reaching effects on the people of Normandie and England.
Robert and Dorianne sired two more sons. It amused them that Catherin
e and Marguerite seemed to believe 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 Georges, his crusading brother. 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 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 inherited 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 Matilda, who later married the Holy Roman Emperor, Heinrich.
Agneta’s Danish heritage surfaced in Ragna who earned the nickname 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.
* * *
Anxious to know what happens next? Read Book VII of The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition, ALLEGIANCE.
Powwydd, Wales, 1106
Rhys ap Rhodri put down his eating dagger and got to his feet when Cadfael hurried into the hall of Powwydd Castle and bowed. His steward’s normally inscrutable face betrayed consternation. “What is it?” he asked.
“Forgive the intrusion, but a messenger has brought dire tidings. Your brothers are prisoners of Henry Beaumont, Earl of Warwick.”
Rhys had dreaded this. Granted overlordship of Gower in South Wales by royal decree, Beaumont was building a castle at Abertawe. Rhun and Rhydderch had talked of nothing else but thwarting the Norman’s plans. Rhys had tried to dissuade them. “It would appear my red-headed twin brothers ignored our father’s advice—and mine.”
“They were apparently caught interfering with the construction and are to be hanged at Warwick Castle in a few days.”
“Do my parents know?”
Cadfael shook his head. “I thought you should be told first, given Prince Rhodri’s ill health.”
Rhys understood. His father was failing and both his parents would be devastated by news of the impending loss of two sons. “My brothers don’t consider me a warrior,” he lamented, “therefore they never listen to my advice.”
“But you don’t lack courage,” Cadfael protested. “As a youth, you accompanied your legendary father on forays against Norman holdings, both in England and Wales.”
Rhys paced, searching for a way to save his brothers. “My longing for Welsh independence from foreign control is no less than the other men in my family, but my passion is not for rebellion.”
“You’ve inherited your mother’s love of peace.”
Rhys was proud to be his mother’s son. “I believe diplomacy and strategic alliances are more likely to achieve what we all seek.”
He knew he could speak freely. Cadfael had known him since he was a boy. “You already have a reputation as a peacemaker in the contentious Marches between England and Wales. The Norman Earls of Ellesmere, father and now son, recognized your talents.”
“We were lucky that the first earl favored negotiation over confrontation and I like to think I earned the powerful Ram de Montbryce’s respect.”
“And you foresaw the power it would bring when your sister asked to marry Baudoin de Montbryce.”
“Indeed, I encouraged it, unlike Rhun and Rhydderch. And now Carys is a countess.”
The pacing helped. Gradually, a plan formed in his mind. Perhaps this disaster was an opportunity to build another alliance. His father was aging and in poor health. As his eldest son, Rhys would become prince of the commote of Powwydd on his father’s death. He would be expected to marry and provide heirs for the principality.
“I learned recently,” he said at length, “that the Earl of Warwick has become guardian of his late sister’s daughter. Annalise de Vymont is of marriageable age and the earl will thus be expected to provide her dowry, since his brother-by-marriage died penniless several months ago.”
Cadfael raised an eyebrow. “You’re considering marriage?”
Rhys shrugged. “I have no desire to marry. I enjoy my bachelor life. Like everyone else in Powwydd, I am more than familiar with the story of my parents’ meeting and falling in love at first sight, and of Baudoin and Carys’s passion for each other.”
Cadfael smiled.
Rhys swallowed the twinge of envy that rose in his throat. “It’s unlikely the same will happen for me. Better to spend my life working towards the freedom of Wales through my efforts as a diplomat than to be distracted by a wife.”
“However, duty requires you to marry.”
Rhys regained his seat at the table, his mind made up. “Send a scrivener. I’ll request a meeting with the earl and make an offer for his niece. She’ll give me sons and I’ll provide a secure home for her here at Powwydd.”
Cadfael seemed about to offer a reply, but then rolled his eyes and left.
Rhys despatched a messenger to Warwick, but set off before receiving a reply. The earl no doubt expected him to come. They had negotiated before.
The journey gave him a chance to refine his strategy. If things went well, he would acquire a wife and Rhun and Rhydderch would be set free.
At length, the imposing castle came in sight, perched atop a sandstone bluff around which the River Avon swept in a gradual curve. Rhys never ceased to be amazed at the arrogance of William the Conqueror who had demolished four houses belonging to the Abbot of Coventry to build it.
He and his escort camped overnight within sight of the castle so Rhys could arrive the following morning refreshed and dressed in his finest clothes, as befitted his status. He chose the bright red, woollen tunic that came down to his shins. His mother always said red became him and it was his father’s favorite color. The slits in the sides revealed a black under-tunic. His knee-length hose were also black, tied with embroidered ribbon, a gift from Carys. He wore them for luck. His tasseled boots were of the softest leather. “I hope my appearance will emphasize the seriousness of my overtures,” he told his valet. He felt comfortable, but it would not be a good idea to underestimate Henry Beaumont. Like all powerful Normans, the earl was wily, though he had become so obese, he could barely walk.
Rhys had no expectation of a warm greeting as he was ushered into the private sitting room. He was confident the earl respected his abilities, but a Norman would always consider a Welshman his inferior. He was given a polite welcome, as nobility obliged. Rhys thanked his host, then came straight to the point. “Milord Earl, I request the honor of becoming betrothed to your niece, Annalise de Vymont.”
The earl, clad all in black from his boots to the jaunty hat perched precariously atop his bald head, arched his brows, the folds of his fat forehead doubling. “Hmph! I thought you’d come to discuss your outlaw brothers. I won’t free them.”
Rhys waited. The earl had not invited him to be seated. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword in an effort to control the urge to shift his stance. Better to be still. He inclined his head a smidgen as a
sign of respect, but not defeat. He had shot the first bolt—had it hit its target?
Warwick fidgeted, running his pudgy fingers over the intricately carved arms of his massive chair, eyeing Rhys.
He wonders what I’m up to.
He did not want to give the impression he was staring, though such obesity did tend to draw the eye. He let his gaze wander over the opulent solar. The llys at Powwydd was well appointed, but here he was surrounded by extravagant luxury. Rich tapestries softened the lime-washed wooden panelling. Two ornate oaken chests sat against the walls. Glass filled the frames of the decorative window slits. Wolf skins warmed the floor. The Norman had made life comfortable for himself.
The earl coughed and shifted his considerable weight. The chair groaned. The pageboy squinted as a foul odor filled the air. “My niece? What do you know of her?”
Despite the reek of flatulence, Rhys resisted the urge to grimace. He had gambled Warwick would not pass up an opportunity to hear more about the offer. “As you’re aware, I’ve never met her, milord, but she’s of marriageable age and I’m confident she will make a good wife. As the future Prince of Powwydd, I’m not without noble standing.”
The caressing of the wood became a drumming of the fingers. Suddenly, the earl gripped the arms and struggled to haul himself out of the chair. The startled pageboy rushed to aid him but Warwick waved him away, eventually coming to his feet, albeit shakily. “She doesn’t speak Welsh, or English for that matter. She’s only recently arrived from Normandie after her father’s death.”
Warwick was swaying, holding on to the arm of the chair with both hands. It was imperative for success that Rhys not betray his nervousness. “I’m aware of it. I’ve made it my business to learn Norman French. I believe in communication. I’ll teach her my language. I’m sure she can learn.”
The earl slumped back into the chair as abruptly as he had risen. Rhys breathed a sigh of relief and hoped the sweat beading on his forehead wasn’t visible. The Norman’s leg twitched, but he looked directly at Rhys. “Annalise is a beautiful, intelligent girl. She’s also very independent—had to be, growing up in the household of my wastrel brother-by-marriage,” he explained, bitterness in his voice. “Her mother died when she was born and her father never got over his wife’s death. He didn’t give Annalise much tendresse.”
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