It took but a few minutes for the struggling to cease. Arnulf’s eyes were wide with the knowledge he would soon be a dead man, and his paralyzed body could do nothing. Simon looked into the dying gaze and smiled grimly.
I have righted the wrong, Estelle. Vengeance is yours.
Then it was over.
Simon stepped back and lowered the lolling head to the pillow. He wiped the dead man’s sweat from his hands on the linens as he heaped them over the body. He forced himself to wait until his breathing steadied, confident it would be hours before anyone became alarmed.
“Sleep well, pig,” he rasped, his heart finally at peace. “It was your destiny to die this night. It’s too late to help my Estelle, but I pray other souls will benefit from your death.”
Our Seigneur Is Dead
I’m getting curious about this Mabelle,” Ram admitted to Antoine as Alensonne came into view. The prospect of a possible marriage to an unknown refugee filled him with misgivings. War was imminent. It was not a good time to marry. “How can a girl who has spent her youth wandering from place to place with a man like Guillaume de Valtesse make a suitable comtesse?”
“If you’d supped in the Great Hall, you’d have seen her,” Antoine replied with a grin. “Perhaps there’ll be no treaty with Arnulf, and Mabelle will never inherit any part of her father’s lands. You’ll be free to marry someone more to your liking, someone more suitable, who’ll bring you a rich dowry. Perhaps then I’ll pursue Mabelle.”
Ram cast a puzzled glance at his brother. “You already have too many women in your thrall. How do you keep track?”
Antoine chuckled. “What can I say? I like women, and they like me. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, I suppose.”
How alike he, Antoine and Hugh were in many ways. Yet Antoine had attractive females at his beck and call, whereas Ram doubted if the shy and gentle, happy-go-lucky Hugh had ever bedded a woman.
He shook his head, sending water droplets flying. “It’s ironic I’m given the task of playing the diplomat on a mission I’d prefer not succeed. I’m sure there are prospective brides who have a more suitable background than this Mabelle.”
Wiping the rain from his face, he thought again of Joleyne. She brought him relief from his physical needs, but it wasn’t a satisfying relationship on any other level. He meant nothing to her beyond providing a means to fulfill her considerable passion. He paid her well for her discretion. Whenever he summoned her, she came to a secluded chamber he kept for such trysts, not wishing to soil his own nest.
He smiled at the thought of his solar, furnished with military souvenirs and trophies. He loved to run his hands over the prized swords and shields mounted on the walls. It was his refuge. He was sure his father was aware of his mistress, but it was a liaison he didn’t flaunt. Few in the castle knew of it. Compared to Antoine he was a monk.
An errant thought suddenly occurred. He turned to his brother. “Imagine being a married man with a beautiful wife who is yours alone. A woman who returns the love you feel for her.”
“Enough,” Antoine replied good-naturedly. “What are you thinking? Has the mud clouded your brain? You’re the eldest son of the Comte de Montbryce. You’ll have no say. None of our comrades in arranged marriages are in love with their wives. It’s a foolish notion to expect that from a marriage. We all know it. Though I’m the middle son, my bride will be chosen for me. That’s one reason I’m enjoying myself now.”
“You’re right. Look at our friend, Pierre de Fleury.”
“Exactly.”
A cold shudder shook Ram as the possibility of a similar fate loomed. “Poor Pierre. How does he bear it? How can he lie with his shrew of a wife?”
He frowned, trying to recall what his father had said about Mabelle. He hadn’t paid attention—perhaps he should have. It was his responsibility to secure the succession of his family. He had to trust his father to ensure that the woman who became his bride would bring them increased wealth and influence. Happiness was not an issue. Neither was passion. That could be found with the likes of the tantalizing Joleyne.
They rode at last into the Alensonne bailey, but no one came to tend their tired mounts. Blathering women ran hither and thither. Men shouted, with no apparent purpose. Indignant hens dodged the stampede. Dogs barked. The torrential rain added to the wretchedness.
What was the commotion about? Ram’s body tensed as he gritted his teeth. He had pushed men and horses through the deluge to get to shelter, yet they were being ignored.
“This Arnulf doesn’t have his servants trained in the code of hospitality,” he grumbled as the damp seeped into his bones.
Antoine nodded his agreement, shrugging his shoulders.
“You there,” Ram shouted to a lad scurrying by.
The boy stopped but kept his gaze fixed on the muddy ground.
“What’s going on here? Is there no one to tend to our mounts?” he asked angrily, rainwater dripping from his helmet and chain mail.
“Mi—milord,” the ragged urchin stammered, taking the reins, fear oozing out of him. “Our seigneur is dead. He’s dead. No one knows what to do.”
“Dead? Arnulf de Valtesse?”
“Oui, milord.”
Ram and Antoine exchanged glances. “How did he die?”
The lad glanced around furtively, as if looking for a means of escape. “No one knows, milord. His valet found his body in bed.”
“He died in his bed?”
The urchin seemed confused by the question. “Our lord often slept late, but his servant became alarmed when the hour for the noon meal approached, and he hadn’t risen.”
The boy, his hair plastered to his head, was almost hysterical, apparently overwhelmed by the presence of two scowling knights accompanied by a brigade of men, and the hubbub around him.
“A lord who sleeps till noon,” Ram remarked to his brother as he dismounted, knowing from experience the successful running of a castle required a leader who rose with the sun. Servants and serfs learned discipline from their masters.
Grooms finally emerged to take the reins of their mounts.
“Make sure the horses are dried thoroughly,” Antoine ordered.
“I am Vicomte Rambaud de Montbryce. Who’s in charge here?” Ram asked the boy, who pointed timidly to a short, bearded man, standing with a group in the bailey, about twenty feet away. He was scratching his head, shoulders hunched, trying to coax shelter from a small overhang by the door. As the brothers sloshed angrily through the puddles, he raised his head and immediately hurried towards them, his consternation evident.
Antoine smirked. “He’s realized who we are, and that he’s failed to provide an appropriate welcome.”
The man bowed. “Mes seigneurs, forgive me. I’m Michel Cormant, steward of Alensonne. As you see, we’re in confusion here. Our master is dead, the body recently discovered. We have therefore failed to give you the proper welcome, and we beg forgiveness.”
“I am Rambaud de Montbryce. This is my brother, Lord Antoine. Your master was told of our visit. Have preparations been made for my men?”
“My son, Paul, will show them to their quarters, and I myself will take you to your chamber.”
Who Will Weep?
The Montbryce brothers followed the steward into the keep. They ascended winding stone steps to the second floor of one of three towers. They were shown into a well-appointed, circular room with two large beds, heavy draperies and exquisite tapestries. Ram nodded his approval to Cormant, then, confident no servants were about, asked, “How did your master die?”
“We’re not sure,” the steward replied, shrugging rounded shoulders and shaking his head. “Perhaps some kind of fit.”
“We’ll need to see the body.”
Cormant hesitated a moment, then replied, “Of course, milord. It’s still in his bed. Follow me, please.”
Ram was reluctant to perform the gruesome duty in wet clothing. He gave permission for two servants to enter,
carrying their trunks. “Leave us now, Cormant. We’ll send our chain mail, swords and gambesons with these servants to be dried. Return within the hour, and we’ll go together.”
He didn’t want to hand over his sword. He felt naked without his arme blanche, a gift from his father, but it would rust if not taken care of. He had dubbed it Honneur and pledged it to the honorable service of his duke.
Cormant bowed and left.
“He hesitated when you asked to see the body,” Antoine remarked, bouncing on the edge of the mattress.
“Oui, but he quickly dismissed his misgivings. He’s no doubt relieved someone from the family of his liege lord has arrived at this time of crisis.”
They stripped off their wet armor and clothing with the help of the servants, who hurried away with it. Ram found two drying cloths draped over a chair and tossed one to Antoine, who tucked the long cloth around his waist and rubbed his legs. Espying a bone comb on a table by the bed, Ram tugged it through his wet hair, and then handed it to his brother.
“Dieu! I grow to look more like you every day,” Antoine lamented.
“What’s wrong with that?” Ram retorted good-naturedly. “There’s less than two years between us, and we both look like our father. Good thing your eyes are green.”
Antoine shrugged. “Perhaps next time I shave my head, I’ll keep it that way, so people don’t keep mistaking me for you.”
Ram smiled. “Strange, I’ve never been mistaken for you.”
The friction of the cloth warmed him. He spent long hours in the training yards to keep fit, battle-ready. His body was all muscle, yet lean. He rubbed dry the smattering of curly hair on his chest and worked his way down the faint line, to the thick nest of curls at his groin.
“I’m soaked through,” he said with a shiver. As he rubbed, Joleyne’s erotic comments came to his memory. “You’re so big, milord,” she would croon. “I never saw such a weapon.”
He was jerked from his self-absorbed reverie by the flick of a damp drying cloth against his buttocks, administered by his grinning brother. “Admiring yourself, Ram?”
He retaliated and they spent a few minutes indulging in their playful antics, gleefully chasing each other around the chamber, as they had when they were boys. Then they sobered as they remembered the unpleasant task they were to perform. “Better get on with it,” Ram muttered.
“You’re right.”
They took fresh hose, linen shirts and woolen doublets from the iron trunks and dressed quickly, each assisting the other since they hadn’t brought a valet. They had no choice but to lace on wet boots.
A polite rap at the heavy door heralded Cormant’s return, and they followed the steward down the steps and across the hall to another tower, where they again mounted to the second floor. Cormant opened the door of this chamber after tapping.
“Why would he knock?” Antoine whispered.
“Habits of a lifetime,” Ram murmured.
The steward bowed. “After you, mes seigneurs.”
Their chamber was finely furnished, but the one they strode into now was opulent. An enormous, heavily-curtained bed sat on a raised platform, dominating the room. The drapery was open, a shape visible. The bedspread had been thrown back. The pungent odor of human excrement cut the air like a sharp knife.
Ram approached the body resolutely, aware of Cormant still at the door. “No overabundance of mourning family members,” he whispered sarcastically to Antoine, who stood at the other side of the bed, a hand covering his nose and mouth.
He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Arnulf’s ugly body, reluctant to touch it. “He looks surprised. Death came unexpectedly. But was it by natural causes, or foul play?”
Antoine kept his voice low. “No blood. No weapon in evidence.”
When a lord died suddenly and mysteriously, all were suspect. Ram was thankful they had arrived after this death and sympathised with Cormant’s obvious nervousness. “Has a physician been summoned?”
“Oui, milord. He came shortly after the alarm was raised and isn’t sure what happened. An attack, he thinks. An apoplexy. The lord had enjoyed a rather heavy meal last evening.”
Looking at the fat jowls and bloated belly, Ram could believe this pig of a man might have died from his excesses. It confirmed his low opinion of the whole Valtesse family. “It’s evident no one will miss such a poor specimen of humanity,” he whispered to his brother, who had moved to stand beside him as they conferred. “Or be sorry he’s dead.”
“His unexpected death might solve problems for the house of Montbryce.”
“But what if someone murdered the wretch? In his own bed. Should an enquiry not be held?”
Antoine gestured to the body. “You know as well as I the likelihood of finding the true killer, if one exists. It’s far more probable some innocent scapegoat would be punished instead.”
Ram turned to the steward, trying not to wrinkle his nose. “We must arrive at a decision as to our course of action and get this corpse cleaned up and buried.”
“Oui, milord. However, I don’t have the authority. You’re the highest ranking noble.”
“I don’t want to waste time conducting an enquiry into this death,” Ram confided to Antoine. “I’ve more important things to do for father, and for Normandie.” He made a decision. “I declare his death to be of natural causes, in concurrence with what the physician has observed. We’ll bury him on the morrow. Cormant, you’ll see to the arrangements.”
He glanced over to Antoine, who nodded his agreement.
“Oui, milord,” Cormant replied, relief evident in his voice.
Ram regretted what had to be said next. “Brother, we’ve just arrived, and it’s a long journey, but I suggest you leave on the morrow to take the news to Montbryce. I’ll stay to assist Cormant for a few days.”
Antoine gritted his teeth. “I’ll leave after the interment.”
At the funeral the next day, Ram wondered how a man from a noble family could come to such a pass—most of the people in attendance were the knights of a baron’s sons who hadn’t come on a social call.
People from the castle attended—Cormant, his wife and three sons, the cook, the chatelaine, the stable boys, servants, and village folk. All looked on with disinterest, though one ragged peasant made no effort to hide his smirk. Arnulf was interred with seemingly endless solemnity by the Bishop of Alensonne. It took eight burly men-at-arms to lift the enormous lead coffin.
Antoine whispered to his brother, “I wonder where they managed to find that monstrosity?”
Ram shook his head. “I hope there are more to mourn my passing when the time comes, and that they care about my death.” His father was aging and it wasn’t likely Ram would die first, unless he fell in battle.
Who will weep for me?
He resolved to leave this castle as soon as possible. Shifting his weight, he looked up at the sky. “Praise be to the saints the rain held off. It’s good to be dry for a while. A few days here will ensure the steward has everything in place for the successful management of the castle until Guillaume de Valtesse can return.”
“Cormant seems a good man,” Antoine agreed. “Even with Arnulf as his master, the steward appears to have kept things running reasonably well. But it’s hard to tell whether he and the rest of the servants and serfs are looking forward to the return of their rightful lord or not.”
Treasured Possession
Mabelle had never seen her red-faced father so excited, or for that matter, so happy. Antoine had brought the news of Arnulf’s death a few hours ago and her sire had ranted gleefully ever since. Despite her relief, this was not a suitable way to react publicly to news one’s son had died. She determined to behave with more dignity than her father. She barely remembered Arnulf and was not saddened by his death, since it was he who had cast her out. His convenient demise meant her dowry would be regained.
Her father calmed down sufficiently to have a conversation. “Didn’t I tell you, daugh
ter, your accursed brother would get his comeuppance? Didn’t I tell you we would return to Alensonne in triumph and regain possession of our rightful lands? I can’t wait to discover what that miserable miscreant has been squandering my money on.”
“Is it safe to go back? Is the castle ours again?” she asked, noticing he gave her no credit for pushing him to seek support from Montbryce. Would she always be a cipher as far as her father was concerned?
“Of course it’s ours,” her father roared. “The Comte de Montbryce has guaranteed it in writing. His sons signed the documents, confirming Arnulf’s death was from natural causes. I am the Seigneur d’Alensonne, without question—and of Belisle and Domfort.”
As if the mention of his name conjured him, the comte appeared, and Guillaume bowed low. Mabelle curtsied, sinking to her knees.
Comte Bernard proffered his hand. “Rise, dear child.”
Guillaume rushed to his side. “Milord Comte. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your succor and support over this difficult time, and now you’ve guaranteed the return of my lands.”
“I’ve done nothing on your behalf, Valtesse. It’s a coincidence your son died as my sons were embarking on their attempts to arrive at a diplomatic solution.”
“But, Milord Comte, honor dictates I thank you for your help,” Guillaume replied.
Mabelle was certain he was deliberately not listening, as usual.
“I wish to repay you, by giving you my most treasured possession.”
Comte Bernard’s eyes widened. “And what might that be?”
Mabelle held her breath. With her dowry regained, she could pick and choose her suitors. Perhaps she could find someone to love and honor her?
Her father avoided her gaze. “Now that my beautiful daughter is heiress to my lands and titles, she’ll be a much sought after bride. But I offer her to you, in betrothal to your son, Rambaud.”
Should she laugh or cry? He had never told her she was beautiful, and now he was anxious to be rid of her.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 3
