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 rumor and what’s fact.”
“Already done, mon père,” Baudoin replied. “And Rhoni and Ronan are on their way from their chamber.”
Mabelle and Ram exchanged a look of pride in their youngest son as their daughter and her Irish husband hurried into the room.
Mabelle clasped Rhoni’s hands and gave a reassuring squeeze. Her gaze shifted 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 had spent most of their lives in England, their hearts lay in Normandie, at Montbryce Castle 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.
A Decision
After days of terrible uncertainty, Mabelle entered the Map Room where she found Ram, Baudoin, and Caedmon, newly arrived from Ruyton. Robert had left for Normandie earlier in the day, accompanied by Ronan who’d insisted his wife remain in England.
Her men were savoring a tankard of ale.
She embraced Caedmon, kissing him on each cheek. “It’s fortunate your family was visiting your mother instead of at home in Northumbria. Whenever I see you three handsome boys together, I’m always taken aback at the resemblance. How is Agneta with her latest pregnancy?”
“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, and she knew he still regretted he’d been away crusading when Blythe and Aidan were born.
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Do we know yet what’s happening?” she asked.
* * *
Caedmon FitzRam admired his step mother. She had 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.
Baudoin answered his mother’s query after wiping his hand across his mouth, savoring 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 beside Ram’s. “What happened then?”
“They rode 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 rumor, he denies firing the shot. According to another, he was not in that part of the forest, and yet another says he was not in the forest at all. 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.”
Their father took up the story. “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 the others before they 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 our 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, still surprised he could comfortably call Ram his father after the disastrous beginning of their relationship. Caedmon had refused to accept he was the son of a Norman, having grown up believing he’d been sired by a Saxon war hero slain at Hastings. Full of self-loathing when he discovered the truth, he had abandoned Agneta and gone off on the People’s Crusade. His horrific experiences in Asia Minor 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 your family of my decision. The threat to our 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 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. 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 protected.
“The most important thing is to secure the Montbryce lands in Normandie. Robert will strengthen the castle and its surrounds. Ronan will garrison Alensonne. Hugh and Antoine, and their sons, will fortify Belisle and Domfort. 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 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.
Virtual Prisoner
Giroux Castle, Normandie, Spring 1101
Dorianne de Giroux had grown up in the bosom of a family filled with hatred and the desire for vengeance. Long before she was born, her late grandfather had been blinded and mutilated by another baron after a bitter argument over territory.
After the evening meal, she and Pierre joined their parents in the gallery, as was their family tradition. She tried to concentrate on her embroidery but, as usual, her father wanted to relive the reasons for the feud that consumed him. “Your grandfather sank into madness after his blinding and made life a living hell for his sons, Phillippe, Georges, and me,” he complained. “Yet it was we who captured the Valtesse castle at Alensonne in retaliation. With the help of Valtesse’s bastard son, we cast him 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.
“Seeking revenge, y
our Oncle Phillippe went to England and plotted against Mabelle de Valtesse’s husband, the Comte de Montbryce.” He sighed heavily. “News eventually reached us Phillippe had been killed in Wales.”
“Papa,” she ventured with a tentative smile. “Can we not talk of other things?”
François de Giroux glared at her as if she had spoken in 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 seemed to hang on their father’s every word, encouraging his preoccupation.
“Well, Papa,” Pierre said, “you almost succeeded in having 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 rebels who kidnapped Rambaud de Montbryce’s wife and her brats.”
Her father rarely showed affection for his children. Growing up, she had looked to Pierre for love. 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 sometimes 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 sometimes stole up to the parapets to watch secretly as the men practiced their skills. Her Maman and Papa would be horrified if they were aware she’d seen men bared to the waist, sweating.
Young noblewomen of eighteen were not supposed to know of such things, and she would never divulge that she admired the strength and beauty God had given to men’s bodies. So different from her own.
Occasionally, seigneurs from neighboring lands would visit, often bringing their sons. This was part of the game to find her a husband, but none of the unappealing young men seemed to satisfy her father’s requirements, which probably had something to do with her dowry. She would have no say in the matter. She was past the age when most young noblewomen married. The only certainty was that her father would never betroth her to a Montbryce, though their lands were apparently not far away.
A few days later, her father took her by surprise at supper in the hall. “Dorianne, on the morrow, you’ll accompany Pierre and me to the castle of the Comte d’Avranches.”
“The morrow?” 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, Otuel d’Avranches. He maybe a bastard son, but 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 adventure might turn out to be a good thing—but a bastard? Encouraged by her father’s unusual warmth, she ventured to ask, “Tell me about the comte’s son.”
He cast her an indignant look. “I haven’t met him. He’s never attended any of the tournaments. He’s but a boy of ten.”
Her heart plummeted. “Ten! But father—”
He 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?”
Pierre scowled at her. “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 grunted something unintelligible, 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.
She wondered if continuing to share 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.”
She sat bolt upright, a cold chill chasing across her nape. “Why would he do that?”
Whistling, Pierre left without another word.
The future did not look promising.
First Meeting
Robert spent the winter preparing Montbryce Castle, strengthening the garrison and repairing the ramparts around the orchards. He was deeply uncomfortable with his father’s decision to support King Henry in the battle for control of Normandie and the English throne. He felt they should fight for his namesake, Duke Robert Curthose. The late William Rufus and Curthose had made an agreement naming each other heir presumptive even before the Conqueror’s death. 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 had received an invitation to the Grand Council being summoned by Hugh d’Avranches, Earl of Chester, a Marcher Lord like his father with extensive holdings in England and Normandie.
He told Steward Bonhomme, “This Grand Council will be an excellent chance to sound out the families that also have lands in England. My uncles will attend to represent the family’s other holdings in Normandie and it will be an opportunity to formulate a unified strategy for the Montbryce lands. I expect Antoine and Hugh’s sons will be there too.”
“A chance to spend time with cousins,” Bonhomme replied with a smile.
The steward made the preparations and Robert completed the two day ride with his knights to Avranches. He was welcomed warmly by the comte who had grown so fat he walked with the aid of the heavy staff now leaning against the massive chair in which he sat.
“How is my old friend, the Earl of Ellesmere?” d’Avranches asked. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”
Since his host evidently had no intention of bringing up the matter of his involvement in the theft of Ronan’s Irish estates, Robert thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie.
“I hear good things concerning his area of the Marches though,” the comte continued. “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 did not 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 to Rhonwen, who was like a daughter to Robert’s mother.
Robert’s own sister, Rhoni, had been born in the Welsh chieftain’s fortress during their captivity. He’d been a child at the time of the kidnapping, but had taken a liking to the fearsome Welshman who taught him how to fight and defend himself, 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 rheumat
ism. He and my mother are both in good health.”
D’Avranches slapped him on the back. “And I suppose your mother is as beautiful as ever?”
“She is,” Robert answered with a grin.
“Your uncles and cousins arrived earlier. Your chambers are satisfactory?”
Robert was aware he had been allotted one of the better chambers this magnificent castle had to offer, with a splendid view of the Narrow Sea. “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.”
* * *
Dorianne relished every moment of the journey to Avranches. She was a caged bird set free. She rejoiced in the beauty of the great forests and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the birds chirping in the trees. She heard the distant voices of laborers in the green fields they traversed.
At home, she was allowed to ride with an armed escort, if she was within sight of the castle. Now, she savored the movement of the mare beneath her as the animal too seemed to enjoy the freedom of the open road.
They had 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 hissed.
They continued their journey in silence. Dorianne was tempted 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 had been worthy of a chamber on the side facing it. It would have been an exciting adventure, were she not preoccupied with the unpleasant prospect of marriage to a ten year old boy.
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