Hugh smiled. “Father has it in hand.”
Ram’s heart lifted as the welcoming walls of the family castle at Saint Germain de Montbryce came into view. Surrounded by fertile meadows that stretched as far as the eye could see, the imposing edifice sat atop a strategically important promontory at the junction of two river valleys. It watched over the demesne that included extensive apple orchards. The serfs brewed a fine apple brandy for their lord, which was famous throughout the Calvados region, as was the golden honey and fromage cremeux they produced.
In the bailey, Ram dismissed his men. At his signal, an excited crowd surged forward to welcome the knights as they dismounted, kissing wives and hoisting children onto their shoulders. It was a happy scene, yet as Ram eased his weary six foot frame from the saddle, he quickly shoved aside the pang of regret that the only person who came out to greet him and his brothers was their father.
“Good to see you, my boy,” Comte Bernard declared. “It’s been too long. You look fit. Campaigning has toughened you up.”
He punched his son in the shoulder, and Ram feigned injury. They clasped arms and embraced, his father pounding him on the back. “Your hair is too long. Don’t you shave it for military duty?”
Ram laughed, stretching as he combed his fingers through his hair. “Vaillon shaves it for me when necessary. I encourage my men to do the same, though they don’t need me to tell them it’s more comfortable under a helmet. But my hair grows quickly.”
“I wish I could say the same for myself,” his father lamented, running his hand over the few remaining grey wisps. He laughed and tousled Ram’s hair. “No wonder they call you Rambaud le Noir.” He pointed to the threatening skies. “Let’s go inside.”
Ram winced, throwing irritated glances at his grinning brothers, who had no doubt taken great pleasure at his father’s teasing. “I believe the nickname Rambaud the Black has more to do with the discipline I expect of my men,” he retorted.
His father seemed to sense his discomfort. “It’s good to have the three of you home together. I’m proud of you all. You’re carrying on the noble military tradition of this family, in the service of Normandie. That you’ve stayed alive in these dangerous times is proof of your prowess. Many noble families haven’t been as fortunate.”
Sixteen when he first fought at his father’s side, Ram remembered fondly the pride in his sire’s eyes as they faced the Angevins together. “We learned from you, Papa. You are a great warrior.”
Antoine and Hugh voiced their agreement.
The Comte slapped Ram on the back. “If only I could still join you boys. With the dire news from England, I sense you will be going to war again.”
Ram concurred. “Duke William is incensed Harold Godwinson has claimed the Confessor’s throne. You’re right. It will mean war.”
“Then your many abilities will be even more important to the duke.”
When they reached the solar, Ram dropped into a chair and used his feet to drag over a footstool. “William is now our undisputed ruler. During my last visit to the ducal court, every major family had sent a representative. However, military prowess won’t be enough. If he becomes King of the English, he will need capable administrators and I want him to see me as more than a warrior.”
Two maidservants entered and served tankards of ale.
Their father waited until the women left. “As my heir, whatever effort you put into the efficient running of our estates will benefit you. You’ll continue our proud heritage as descendants of the original North Men.”
Ram offered a toast. “To the honor of the Montbryce family.”
“Montbryce…Fide et Virtute,” the others echoed.
The four sat for a while, drinking contentedly.
Ram licked his lips and belched, thumping his chest. “Good ale. Just what I needed after the long journey.” He turned to his father. “I’ve asked the duke if I can spend time assisting you with the administration of our estates. Before we go to war, I’ll make sure all is in order.”
Comte Bernard looked indignant. “You think I’m getting too old for the job, eh?”
Ram exchanged a glance with his brothers, shook his head and smiled. “It will be good to leave the military life for a while, and the duke recognizes you’re an able tutor. He knows we’ve already learned much from you.”
Relaxing in the comfort of the castle where he had grown up, Ram had to admit his father had aged quickly after the death of their mother, a loving woman who always deferred to her husband. He hoped for such a wife, if ever he decided to marry.
His father had carried on talking while he had been lost in thought. “Well, there is a matter in which I must involve you.”
Ram waited, curious to know what could be so important it had to be discussed now.
His father walked over to the window, took another draught of his ale, then fidgeted with the lace on the cuffs of his tunic. Finally, he cleared his throat and began. “The exiled Seigneur of Alensonne, Guillaume de Valtesse, has appealed to us with complaints his bastard son, Arnulf, has usurped his lands. Valtesse and his daughter, Mabelle, were forced to flee. At first, it seemed a minor problem. You boys may not recall the uproar. Guillaume de Valtesse was a competent lord, but unpredictable. Now those lands have become strategically more important, and Arnulf is forming alliances with our enemies, his Angevin neighbors.”
Antoine leaned forward. “I believe I’ve heard something of them in my travels. A jongleur in Caen performs a ballade that tells the tale of Valtesse blinding another nobleman. That can’t be true.”
Their father corrected him. “Nigh on six years ago, there was an acrimonious dispute over land. Valtesse is an irascible fellow. He lost his temper and lashed out. As well as blinding Charles de Giroux, he cut off the unfortunate devil’s ears. It drove Giroux to madness.”
Hugh held out his empty tankard. “I’ve never heard this tale. What about Arnulf?”
Their father refilled their tankards. “If only it were a tale. Seeing an opportunity to advance his own wealth, Arnulf sided with the Giroux family. They challenged Valtesse to come out and fight, but without the support of his own son, his courage failed him. He surrendered and was exiled, taking his daughter with him, at Arnulf’s insistence.”
“He and the girl have wandered ever since?” Hugh asked.
“Oui, the only life his daughter has known is that of an outcast, regarded with scorn, and probably mistrust, as the landless daughter of a vicious murderer and mutilator.”
“Murderer?”
“There are suspicions Guillaume de Valtesse killed his wife. She was strangled.”
Ram scratched his head. Why had his father turned the conversation to the girl? “This woman—what’s her name, Mabelle?—is either as evil as her father, or she has intelligence and has learned how to survive, despite his madness.”
His father seemed intent on continuing the story. “There’s no doubt she’s lived a hard life. I believe coin has been a problem, and they’ve been forced to depend on the code of hospitality. Imagine a young woman, born into nobility but unable to take her rightful place. She’s never had the opportunity to be who she was born to be. The only way to regain her position would be—marriage.”
Ram didn’t like the speculative look in his father’s eyes. “Who would marry a landless refugee with no dowry, and what does this have to do with us?” he asked cautiously, putting down his tankard.
His father shrugged, winking at Ram. “I may not like the horrid man, but he is my vassal and the rightful lord of the lands in question. We can’t have impertinent sons usurping their fathers’ estates, can we?”
“Non, I suppose we can’t,” Ram said with a chuckle. Like him, his father was probably offering up a silent prayer of thanks for the unspoken bond of trust that would ensure nothing of the sort ever happened to the Montbryces. In such uncertain times, family treachery could put everything at risk.
His father’s voice broke into his musing. “Besides
, it’s time for you to take a wife.”
Ram bristled. The ale suddenly had a bitter aftertaste. He stood, stiffened his shoulders and faced his father squarely, folding his arms. His brothers shifted nervously in their seats. This was not the first time their father had insinuated he should be considering marriage, but he had never done it so blatantly.
Ram resolved to stay calm. “First of all, I have plenty of time for such matters.” He acknowledged inwardly that he was past the age when most young men took a bride, but he soldiered on. “In any case, William will try to oust Harold and there will be war. This is not the right time to be marrying. And what does this have to do with the Valtesse problem?”
His father took up an equally challenging stance. “You are five and twenty—past time to be married. You should be siring children while you’re in your best years. Besides, I’m getting old and would like to see my grandchildren. Mabelle de Valtesse has grown to womanhood.”
Ram’s hackles rose but he preferred not to lose his temper. He had managed thus far to deflect his father’s attempts to get him to marry. He liked the freedom of his bachelor life. “Why would I want to wed an urchin who has spent her life wandering, and who has no inheritance, titles or dowry? She wouldn’t make a suitable comtesse.”
“One day she may have those things. Come, Valtesse expects us in his chamber.”
“He’s here? Now? But—”
“Oui, now.”
Ram itched to object. He’d just arrived home, but once his father made up his mind, it was useless to argue. Though he had no desire to meet this dubious nobleman, he wouldn’t disobey.
“Let’s get it over with then,” he grumbled, glaring at the grinning Antoine.
“I won’t attend, if that’s acceptable?” Hugh offered. “I haven’t finished my ale.”
“Fine. No need for you to be there, but Antoine, you should come.”
Antoine’s grin disappeared as they followed their father to the chamber allotted to Valtesse. Introductions were made. Valtesse’s arrogant posture and scowling face added mistrust to Ram’s annoyance. And where was his daughter?
Bernard de Montbryce explained that his sons would undertake to travel to Alensonne to negotiate with Arnulf. Ram arched his brows and looked at Antoine, who seemed equally perplexed and confused. Wary of what he had learned about the wandering nobleman, he approached the matter carefully. “Tell me, milord, your son—”
Guillaume glared at him. “Arnulf is a fat, lazy bastard. He stole my lands from me, and from Mabelle, my rightful heir. He took the part of the Giroux family to further his own ends and must be ousted. He has no right to the estates he occupies.”
“Is Alensonne fortified?” Antoine asked.
Guillaume’s eyes bulged as he paced. “All my castles are fortified. Arnulf forced us to flee south to nearby Anjou. We had to leave there because of Angevin animosity towards Normans.”
“But—”
“Because of Arnulf and the Seigneur de Giroux, we’ve been denied our rightful position and have wandered from Caen to Fécamp, from Arques to Avranches. What kind of life is that for my daughter? At times, she’s had to assist the cooks in the kitchens. My only daughter, a servant. It’s intolerable.”
“My father has suggested—”
Valtesse made no effort to listen and carried on, his mouth now twisted into an ugly sneer. “My daughter and I have been forced to sleep on pallets in musty, unused chambers, if we were lucky enough to find such.”
He stretched out his arms and threw his hands in the air to gaze at the beams as if to seek vindication from whatever spirit lurked there.
Ram opened his mouth to speak again, but Valtesse resumed his pacing and his rant. “Other times the stale rushes on dirt floors have been our resting place. The Seigneur of Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort, sleeping with servants and serfs. God has abandoned us.”
It was as well the bishop was not present to hear this heretical tirade about God’s mistreatment. Ram glanced at his father, who merely shrugged. Antoine was biting his fist, apparently finding the situation amusing. Ram felt sorry for the people of Alensonne if this raging fanatic did regain his lands. He experienced a momentary pang of pity for the young girl who had been forced to traipse around Normandie with her irascible parent. She was probably as angry and twisted as he.
As they left the contentious meeting, Antoine and their father started towards the Great Hall, but Ram turned in a different direction.
“Aren’t you supping in the hall?” their father asked.
“Non, I have an appointment elsewhere.”
His father shook his head and walked away.
Antoine wagged a finger at his brother. “Ah, the provocative Joleyne,” he teased.
Ram tapped a forefinger to his lips. “Lower your voice.”
Antoine snorted. “You think Papa doesn’t know? Besides, Mabelle de Valtesse will likely be in the hall. Don’t you want to meet her?”
“Nothing will come of the idea of my marrying her. She’s not suitable. Why should I forego a long-awaited tryst to spend an hour making conversation with an uneducated urchin?”
Antoine frowned. “Joleyne isn’t suitable either. She’s a peasant, a woman to bear bastards, not heirs.”
Ram’s jaw clenched. “I’m aware of that, and I’ve no intention of fathering bastards with my mistress. I love you, brother, but I don’t meddle in your many liaisons. I’ll be dining privately with Joleyne. By the morrow, Father will have forgotten about Guillaume de Valtesse. I bid you goodnight.”
Ram was proven wrong the next day when his father remained insistent. He and Antoine had no choice but to set out for Alensonne to force a solution to the problem of the contested lands.
The weather had deteriorated considerably. The brigade of Montbryce knights made slow progress along the road, harnesses jangling. Though he rode proudly at the head of the well-armed column, Ram peered through the rain with a sour gaze at the muddy track.
Why is Papa adamant about this matter?
“I’ll be relieved when we reach Alensonne,” Antoine complained. “Curse these April rains—they turn the earth to muck.”
Fortis snorted, seemingly in agreement as he pulled his great hooves free with each step. Ram could see no good reason why he should deal with this trivial mission. He had been home only a day. At least he’d had the chance to enjoy Joleyne’s talents. The memory of their tryst soothed his discontent.
A Wrong Righted
A cloaked figure squeezed through the tiny postern gate of Alensonne, and paused to listen, his eyes darting from one darkened corner to another. The moonless night suited Simon’s plans. Heavy clouds threatened more rain, but the deluge had stopped for the moment.
He had learned from recent gossip in the bailey that Rambaud de Montbryce, son of his overlord, was due to arrive on the morrow. The guards would be more alert, and Montbryce would bring his own men. Now was the time to avenge his daughter’s death. It had been long enough.
Creeping through the darkened bailey, he was glad he had waited and taken time to plan. It was close to midnight. Guards would still be on the turrets. He clenched the calloused fists with which he intended to restrain his victim. There was nothing more to lose. If he was hanged for the murder he was about to commit, so be it. This lord had no honor, no morals.
It’s a cruel man who wrests from young maidens the only thing of value they have.
Two sentries paused as their paths crossed on the battlements above. “Mon vieux, how are you this dark night?”
“I wish I was tucked up in a warm bed with my wife, old friend.”
“I wish I was tucked up in a warm bed with your wife too.”
Simon smirked and leaned his head back against the wall. His hood protected him from the rough stone. He suspected the two men had exchanged this same jovial greeting many times over the years. Both snorted their laughter as they parted to continue their vigil. He was relieved their attention was on their jest and not the
ir duty.
Moving stealthily through the darkened bailey, he hugged the high stone walls, breathing more easily when there was no guard at the heavy door to the keep. Things were as lax as always. The hinges of the oaken door creaked as he inched it open and paused, waiting, alert, his thick fingers gripping the time-worn wood.
No-one challenged him. His aged boots made no sound on the steps as he climbed to the chamber where all knew the master slept. He paused again to steady his breathing as his fingers touched the vial concealed in his cloak. Reassured, he smiled grimly and edged the door open.
Loud snoring assailed his ears as he entered the chamber, and his disgust intensified. “Cochon,” he murmured.
The pig was a man of thirty years, whereas Simon had weathered two score and ten. However, the dissolute nobleman would be no match for strength bred from years of toiling in the fields for this cruel wretch and his father before him.
An echo of his daughter’s last desperate wail of agony in the throes of death pressed in on his memory as he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. He had been helpless then, but he wasn’t helpless now. Rage coursed through him as he tore open the drapery of the enormous bed and grunted, “Cochon!”
Arnulf startled and struggled to sit up, confusion apparent in his half-open eyes. Anger threatened to choke Simon. He seized his prey and dragged him to the head of the bed, pressing his knee into his victim’s chest. Forcing Arnulf’s head against the backboard, he used his big hands to pry open the ugly mouth, silencing the scream that threatened to escape. Reaching into his cloak with one hand, his fingers closed on the vial. Deafened by his own heartbeat, he eased off the stopper with his thumb and slowly and deliberately poured the wolfsbane between Arnulf’s protesting lips.
The wretch tried to move his head, his fat legs kicking frantically, but Simon increased his grip and brought his whole weight to bear on his lord’s chest. A foul odor filled the air and he took grim satisfaction in knowing his victim’s bowels had failed him.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 2
