“Papa—”
“Silence, child. I know what’s best for you,” he hissed. “So, Milord Comte, do you agree to my proposal that we join forces? Mabelle will bring to the marriage a formidable amount of land, power and influence in Normandie and Le Maine.”
Comte Bernard hesitated only a few moments before walking over to Mabelle. Placing his fingers under her chin, he tilted her face to his view. “You’re a beautiful woman, and you’ll make an exceptional wife for my son. You have strength, pride, intelligence, and perseverance. The future Comte de Montbryce will need such a woman at his side in the turbulent times I foresee for Normandie. There’s no doubt His Grace too will be pleased at the strategic lands that will come under our control. We must get some new gowns made for you.”
Mabelle had never heard such words of praise from her own father. She wanted to throw her arms around the Comte and kiss him. He had seen qualities that her sire had never considered. Perhaps strengths she hadn’t seen in herself? She looked at her father and was suddenly afraid he might start strutting around the room crowing like a cock. He had heard nothing of what Comte Bernard had said.
She should have been happy but had a sinking feeling she had quickly lost the long-desired control over her own life. Had she indeed exchanged one authoritarian for another?
A Betrothal
Mabelle was thankful the next day for her mother’s insistence she be taught to read. She could also sign her name, but was determined not to let anyone see her trepidation when the documents for the marriage contract were brought into the Chart Room by the scrivener. Wearing a new linen chemise and dark green surcoat, tailored hastily by a castle seamstresses, she signed her name with care. To Mabelle de Valtesse, her father insisted the monk add and of Alensonne, Belisle and Domfort. The intended groom had not yet returned from Alensonne, and his father signed in his stead.
She had lain awake, worrying she knew nothing of this man to whom she had been given. Consequently, she had arrived late for the ceremony, much to her father’s chagrin. No one had asked her opinion. Life with her father was hard, but few paid her much attention most of the time. She was a person of no consequence. There had been a chance, with her birthright regained, that she could return to her beloved Alensonne. Now another man, a stranger, would control her life. His brothers had been warm and welcoming, but what was Rambaud like? She and her dead half-brother were very different.
At the celebratory banquet, she teased her father. “Now, Papa, the jongleurs will sing a new ballade about the Valtesse family.”
He actually smiled, a rare event, and tweaked his mustache. “And now, daughter, we’re seated above the salt.”
The dark red wine and ale were plentiful, the courses many. They dined on roasted pheasant flavored with tarragon from the herb gardens, pigeons sprigged with rosemary, and suckling pigs. The woman who reigned supreme in the kitchens, known simply by the name of her calling, La Cuisinière, had roasted piglets on spits. Mabelle, used to wandering in and out of kitchens, had watched her brandish a large wooden spoon at anyone who tried to steal the crisp crackling of the succulent meat. La Cuisinière used a secret recipe to produce a memorable dish with trout caught by the steward’s men. There was yellow cheese in wedges, the famous fromage cremeux de Montbryce, and coarse black bread.
Her father’s voice dominated, and Mabelle was content he was happy, enjoying the honor he felt was his due. But she worried about her betrothed. Why had he failed to appear in the Great Hall the night he had been home? Comte Bernard had apologized for his son’s absence, obviously embarrassed by it. Antoine had muttered some excuse about an appointment. She had an idea of what that meant. There was a more important female in his life.
She should be relieved her father had given her to a wealthy family. She would become the wife of a liege lord when her future husband inherited the title of Comte. Wasn’t it everything she had wanted for a long time?
“A messenger has arrived from Montbryce, milord.” Cormant handed the missive to Ram and turned to leave.
Ram clenched his jaw, hoping the letter didn’t contain what he suspected. “A moment. I may need to send a reply.” He unfurled the letter, scanned it, and swore.
“I trust it’s not bad news from home, milord?”
Ram scratched his head. “I’m betrothed. To a girl I’ve never met. I’d hoped it would come to naught, but my father has signed the betrothal documents.”
Cormant seemed ill at ease with this moment of familiarity. “It’s often the way, milord, for the sons of great families.”
Ram shrugged. “I wish I’d at least met her. You know her perhaps? The daughter of your lord.”
Cormant looked at him with surprise. “Mabelle de Valtesse? I remember her as a child, before her father’s ouster brought us Arnulf.”
“So, you have no knowledge of her upbringing, her education? I’m not sure about her—suitability.”
He felt uneasy. Perhaps he’d already said too much to this servant. He made an effort to explain. “I’ve met your lord—my future father-by-marriage, it seems.”
Cormant remained silent. Ram looked him in the eye. “I don’t envy you the task of dealing with Valtesse when he returns.”
Cormant’s face gave away nothing.
Ram read the missive again and rolled it up. Holding it in one hand, he tapped it absent-mindedly against his thigh. “Send the scrivener to me. I’ll dictate a reply. I might remind my father this is not the time to be marrying.”
“Is there ever a right time to marry, milord?”
Ram smiled. The man had mistaken his meaning. “I’ll be off to war.”
Cormant looked impressed. “You’ll be accompanying His Grace in his quest for the English throne?”
Ram squared his shoulders, proud he could slap the steward on the back and declare, “Oui, of that I’m sure.” Then his thoughts went back to the news of his betrothal. “We must redouble our efforts to secure Alensonne now it’s part of my betrothed’s dowry. Seems I have no choice. My inevitable wedding is in a sennight.”
Exploring Montbryce
Mabelle wanted to explore the castle where she would live and rule as the future comtesse when she and Rambaud married. “Perhaps if I can find my way around, it won’t seem so overwhelming,” she suggested to Comte Bernard.
He instructed the steward to conduct a tour. Mabelle was grateful for a knowledgeable guide such as Fernand Bonhomme. They viewed halls, galleries and chambers. Mabelle had spent the last six years in one castle or another, but she had not seen such beauty, nor felt such comfort and warmth, since her childhood in Alensonne.
“It’s beautiful,” she kept saying to Bonhomme. “Very impressive.” It was hard to believe it would soon be her home.
They arrived at a stout oaken door. “And this, milady, is the chamber of your betrothed.”
Mabelle hesitated before stepping over the threshold. It was a man’s room, without a doubt. Red predominated in the hangings and furnishings. Weapons and shields adorned the walls, wolf skin rugs warmed the floor. A woven Flemish tapestry depicting a battle covered one wall. She ran her hand over the rich brocade of the bed coverings, snatching it away when she became aware of the tall steward’s eyes on her.
The thought of sharing this bed with a man she had never met was overwhelming, and her belly turned over. She had little knowledge of men, despite the harsh life she had lived. Her father was a difficult man, but he had protected her. Would Ram be patient? Would he treat her well? The room seemed very masculine, with no place for a woman. Would he expect her to sleep elsewhere?
“Shall we continue, milady?”
They toured the kitchens, the smithy, the chapel, the brandy distillery, the bee hives, the stores, the larder, the smokehouse, the herb garden, and even the chicken coop, though Bonhomme carefully avoided the manure pile. In the stables she found her mare.
“Sibell will love her own clean stall,” she confided to the steward, who was also stroking the horse.
“I used to bring her morsels from the tables. She’ll be better taken care of here.”
“Oui, milady. The Montbryces pamper their horses.”
He assisted her to ascend the stone steps to the ramparts, from where they looked down on the vast stretches of land surrounding the castle. “This is the Montbryce demesne,” he declared, spreading out both his arms expansively. “As far as the eye can see.”
Mabelle smiled. “You’re proud of it.”
“Milady, I’ve been the trusted steward of the Montbryce estate for many years, taking over from my father before me. One of my sons will succeed me when the time comes.”
“Oh, look,” she exclaimed, pointing out to the west. “Over there—a patch of bluebells, at the edge of the forest.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the warm springs and summers of Alensonne, tucked away in the south west corner of Normandie on the river Sarthe. She heard again her mother’s tinkling laughter as they gathered armfuls of bluebells in the open fields surrounding the castle. Now the wildflowers were a dim and distant memory, like her mother. “Is it safe to go there?”
“Oui, milady. Provided you don’t go too far into the forest.”
“I’ll be careful. Has there been any word from my betrothed?”
Bonhomme shook his head. “Not that I know of, milady. But don’t worry, he’s very punctual.”
Punctual? I suppose that’s a good thing. Unless he expects it of me.
He took her hand and helped her descend the steps.
“Merci, Fernand. I appreciate your taking the time to show me everything. It’s a big castle, and you run it well.”
His face reddened. “Merci, milady. My pleasure,” he gushed as his wife joined them.
She bowed to Mabelle, a sign of respect she would have to get used to. “Milady, the seamstresses await you in your chamber.”
Madame Bonhomme accompanied her to the fitting. The servant seemed friendly as she chattered on. “The dressmakers have never worked so hard. They’ve been plying their needles from morning till night, preparing shifts, nightgowns, wimples, hose, chemises and dresses for you. The pièce de resistance will be the gown for the ceremony itself.”
The woman was seemingly unable to take small strides, and Mabelle had to run to keep up with her.
“I’ve never worn anything as fine. There have been so many fittings, pinnings, twirlings, and adjustments, I’m beginning to feel like a pincushion. Is there word from my betrothed?”
It bothered her she seemed driven to ask about him.
“Not that I’m aware, but milord Rambaud is always—”
“I know—punctual. But what is he like?”
“Oh, he’s a handsome devil. A decorated warrior, counsellor to Duke William, despite his youth.”
Was he kind, thoughtful, or a tyrant? She couldn’t voice these questions aloud to this loyal Montbryce servant.
When they reached the chamber, Mabelle submitted once more to the ministrations of the dressmakers, and the steward’s wife took her leave. Mabelle looked down at the peasant woman adjusting her gown. Again, curiosity got the better of her. “Tell me, Bette, what is my betrothed like?”
The girl blushed and giggled. “Oh, milady, forgive me for saying, but milord Rambaud has eyes that can make women do foolish things.”
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, milady, just a pin.”
The pit in Mabelle’s belly widened further. She had been chewing her nails—a new habit. She hastily curled her fingertips into her palms. Doing foolish things with a man was something beyond her comprehension. It was likely he would want to dominate her. Would she grow to love him? She had to meet him first.
First Meeting
The evening before the wedding, a message from Rambaud arrived with assurances to his father he was on his way home, and would arrive in time for the ceremony.
“He expresses frustration at being delayed in Alensonne. He wanted to ensure all was as it should be since those lands and titles will be part of your dowry, Mabelle,” Comte Bernard told her as they dined with Antoine and Hugh in the Great Hall. “He received the message of the betrothal two days after we signed the document. He needed to investigate any lingering threat from the Giroux family but has heard no rumors of this. He sends you greetings.”
“Greetings,” she mumbled, struggling to control her disappointment that she would not meet him until their wedding.
Doubts nagged as the interminable night dragged on. She woke from a fitful sleep before dawn on her wedding day, feeling tired and irritable, bemoaning the state of her fingernails.
She needed fresh air. Suddenly, she remembered the field of bluebells espied from the battlements. Bonhomme had assured her it was safe. Perhaps that was what she needed—an hour alone to recall happier days.
She leapt to her feet and dressed quickly, as she’d done for years, in a homespun chemise and sage green surcoat with ample skirts down to her feet. She tied the braided woolen belt at her waist, pinned up her hair, and stole out of the bailey, carrying a basket from the kitchens. Peasant garb had proven over time to be the surest way to pass unnoticed among servants already up and busy. People would be looking for her soon enough to prepare for the ceremony.
Once outside the walls, she followed the path across the meadow. The fragrance of the apple blossom from the nearby orchard filled the air. Tension melted from her body as her bare feet touched the dew-laden grass. Turning to face the rising sun, she shielded her eyes, catching a glimpse of a lark high in the sky, filling the air with its tribute to the dawn. Then, in a whirl of feathers, the bird was snatched from the air by a swooping hawk. A chill swept over her. She stiffened her shoulders, blinked away tears and hurried on.
She reached the carpet of blue and stooped to pluck the squeaky, hollow stems of the wildflowers, humming as the bunch grew in her basket. She tried in vain to think of something other than her impending marriage. Wandering in penury, she had longed to be free to make her own decisions. Now that seemed unlikely, but at least she would no longer be sleeping on stone floors or working in kitchens.
Bees buzzed busily among the bluebells. She became flushed as the unseasonably warm April sun rose higher, and obliged her to seek the shade of the white-barked birch trees at the edge of the forest, lured by the cooling sound of the warm gentle breeze rustling the leaves.
The basket became unwieldy. She set it down and bent to resume her gathering. She had strayed far into the forest and was on the point of turning back when a glint of sunlight caught her eye. Venturing a few steps further, she smiled at the sight of a shimmering lake.
It was private and inviting, surrounded on three sides by sheer, moss-covered rocks. The clear water didn’t appear to be deep. She was hot. Out of sight of the castle, she felt secure no one could see her. It would not be the first time she had bathed in a lake or stream.
Glancing around nervously, she removed the belt and dress, setting them down on a rock. The distant chirping and warbling of birds, newly hatched hungry nestlings, brought a smile to her face. She could hear no other sounds. The air was still. The chemise quickly followed the dress, and she waded gingerly into the refreshing water, gasping as the chill assailed her body.
Not a strong swimmer, she waded, moving her arms to and fro, her breasts bobbing on the surface, nipples hardening from the initial shock of the cold water. A tingle snaked through her as she modestly cupped her breasts.
Before this day is out, I’ll be married. Rambaud will expect his rights as a husband. Will he be gentle? Will he want me to call him Ram? Will he like me? Everyone says he looks like his handsome brother, Antoine, who has been kind to me since I came here.
She yawned, the long night and early rising catching up with her.
I must make my way back. It will take a while for the sun to dry my skin.
She strode out of the water, spread the surcoat on the grass and lay down, unpinning her hair to let it flow over her shoulders, easing her feeling of exposure
. She spread the chemise over her body and gathered up a bunch of bluebells to clutch at her breast. The water had calmed her. With a smile on her face, she drifted off, dreaming of what it might be like to be kissed.
After riding at a steady pace for several hours, Ram was confident he would arrive home in plenty of time for the wedding, punctuality being one of the things he prided himself on. His muscles ached. He had been riding with his body tense, preoccupied with the frustration of this unwanted marriage. The duty chafed. He had his future planned, and this would interfere. He decided to take time to stop at his favorite lake to swim, not wanting his betrothed’s first impression of him to be the unpleasant odor of horse after a two-day ride.
As the castle came in sight, he signaled his men to go ahead and veered off to take the familiar path into the forest, slowing his horse, then stopping and dismounting a short distance from the lake. He tied his stallion to a nearby birch tree and propped his helmet on the pommel of the saddle. “Fortis, old friend, you’ll soon be back in your own stall, where you can have a rub down, some delicious hay and a well-deserved rest.”
He walked briskly towards the inviting water, unsheathing his sword, eagerly stripping off his boots, padded chausses, surcoat, hose, undershirt and braies. He tossed them into a pile, placed his sword carefully on top, then slipped soundlessly into the water. It was bracing, but felt good against his skin. He swam lazily for several minutes, then floated on his back looking up at the clear blue sky, listening to the sounds of chirping birds, inhaling the fragrant apple blossom.
I love this place. Maman used to bring us here when we were boys.
The mysteries and frustrations of Alensonne melted away, and he began to look forward to his marriage. He had never bedded a virgin. Considering the life she had led, was Mabelle untouched?
Reluctantly deciding he should make his way home, he strode from the water and perched on a flat rock, rubbing his hands through his hair, waiting for his body to dry. After a few minutes, he wandered over to his clothing and pulled on his linen braies. Catching sight of a mound of blue in the grass nearby, he wondered idly what it might be. He sauntered over, fiddling with the ties of his braies. He discovered a basket of freshly picked bluebells.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 4
