Ram began to feel more optimistic. “Such important pieces of information might turn this inconvenient journey to my advantage, and augment my importance in William’s eyes.”
He was glad of the company of his brothers. He could keep an eye on Antoine and Hugh, and the presence of family bolstered his hopes. They had proven themselves as warriors in the hell of Hastings, but Hugh had withdrawn into uncharacteristic moodiness. The seemingly uncontrollable tremor in his younger brother’s hand was worrisome.
Passing through Bridgnorth on the River Severn, Ram resolved to ask William for this town as part of his holdings. Though somewhat far removed from Ellesmere, it was a good location, and William hadn’t mentioned it for a royal castle.
They decided to stop at Shrewsbury to ascertain the latest news of Welsh incursions, learning from Norman sympathizers that Rhodri ap Owain had been creating havoc around the town of Oswestry.
“This is surprising,” Ram remarked to his brothers as they left the meeting. “I understood winter normally keeps the Welsh in their mountain hideaways. Perhaps they’re changing their strategy? We’ll investigate once we’ve inspected Ellesmere.”
A day later, Ram surveyed the crumbling Anglo-Saxon timber fortification that was Ellesmere Castle. It guarded the only dry approach to the town, which seemed to exist in a sea of mud.
He and his brothers were frozen to the bone, thanks to the incessant bitter wind sweeping down from the snow-capped peaks to the west.
“They say Welsh rebels survive all winter long in those bleak mountains,” Antoine observed, “but that can’t be true.”
“Must be hardy men,” Hugh added.
Drowning in disappointment, Ram looked at his shivering brothers, their noses as red as winter beetroots, aware they were avoiding voicing what had to be said. “Go ahead and say it. So much for my earldom. The place is a fyking disaster.”
“It’ll need work,” Antoine agreed.
“Work,” Ram exclaimed. “More like a miracle.”
“You simply have to accept it will take a few years to build another Montbryce here,” Hugh retorted. “But you have the ambition and the intelligence to do it.”
“And you’ll have Mabelle,” Antoine reminded him. “She’s survived hardship before.”
Ram looked to the mist-shrouded mountains. “This is a good location for forays into Wales. I suppose I have to be patient and face the reality it will be a long while before this place is habitable. I certainly can’t bring a wife here the way it is now.”
“You intend to marry Mabelle then?” Hugh asked.
“As soon as William gives me leave to return to Normandie,” Ram replied, swearing a silent oath to build a magnificent castle for Mabelle at Ellesmere that would be warm and welcoming, instead of this abomination, and to return to her side as soon as he could. What more did he want in a wife? The prospect renewed his hopes for the future. “Let’s get the men out of the wind and see what’s inside this so-called castle.”
They spent two days deciding what to burn or demolish. Hugh mastered a few words of the native tongue and assured Ram there were many peasants who’d come looking for work. It seemed the majority were glad to hear of the demise of the Danish king. It was a good omen. Normans had much to offer, especially in terms of government, commerce and architecture, and Ram began to envisage Ellesmere as a prosperous market town.
But he was impatient to reconnoiter the surrounding area. There’d been more reports of raids by Welsh rebels and he wanted to let local folk know he and his army were in the vicinity to stay and intended to put a stop to the raids. They were far from London and William had placed a great responsibility on his shoulders.
He was about to ride out with Gervais and his brigade when his lieutenant noticed a small group of riders approaching.
Antoine had come to see him off and was the first to recognise among them the messenger they’d sent to Montbryce after Hastings.
Ram hadn’t really expected a reply. “You delivered our missive?” he asked. “Our father knows we are safe?”
“Oui, milord, although he was too ill to dictate a response.”
Ram’s heart lurched. “Too ill?”
“A pestilence, milord. Many in the Calvados are suffering.”
“But he will recover?” Antoine asked.
The messenger took a parchment from a satchel slung across his body. “I’m sure of it, milord, but he said you would understand once you read this missive from Milady Mabelle.”
Ram took the letter, but hesitated.
“Open it,” Antoine urged.
“Mabelle wouldn’t have written unless it was bad news,” he replied, slipping off the ribbon.
He unfolded the parchment, scanned the contents and immediately understood his father’s distress. His sire had been correct. Mabelle recognized her own worth, something he had failed to see. He wanted to tell her about Hastings, about his promised earldom, but that wouldn’t come to pass now.
He didn’t blame her, but the loss cut deep. However, he couldn’t give vent to his anguish with his men looking on. He refolded the letter. “She’s left me,” he said to Antoine.
His brother grabbed the parchment. “What?”
Perhaps if his trembling legs functioned and he managed to mount Fortis and ride away on his mission, some of the pain might dissipate. “Remain here. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Antoine followed him. “You can’t accept this. She’ll come round. Ask for permission to return home. Father is ill. The duke will grant leave.”
Ram swung himself into the saddle, anxious to be anywhere but in the windswept courtyard. “She’s made her decision. I have to learn to live with it.”
He signaled Gervais and rode out towards the distant mountains.
Confrontation
Rhodri had forewarned his men their latest foray into the Marches would be dangerous, but they needed the grain. The farms near Ruyton were the likeliest place to find it. They did not expect to encounter Saxons. According to rumor, most of the English nobility had been massacred by William of Normandie at Hastings, the rest at Dover, Canterbury and Wallingford.
The Normans would come, but it was not likely they had reached the Marches yet. From all reports, William seemed to be concentrating his merciless campaign in the south, and Rhodri had led several raids without encountering any opposition. He hoped Ruyton, the furthest point they had travelled from their hideaway, would be the same.
Taking the grain went without a hitch. The terrified farmers offered no resistance. Rhodri was careful to leave them sufficient for their own families and they were grateful. They had no overlord to satisfy now. He hoped the Woolgar brute who governed nearby Shelfhoc Hall was one who had perished at Hastings. It was probable, since the man had been a huscarl of King Harold. It was said they had fought to the death rather than surrender to the Normans.
They loaded the surefooted ponies that would carry the grain safely back to Wales. This raid would be the last for a long while. Rhodri tarried with a handful of his men, sharing ale with the farmers, trying to coax what news they might have about the Norman invaders. They confirmed Caedmon Woolgar’s death at Hastings.
“I pity the Mistress of Shelfhoc,” one of the farmers said. “Lady Ascha is better off without her brutish husband, but ‘tis no time for a woman left alone, especially with them Welsh—”
He stole a glance at Rhodri who snickered and slapped the man on the back. “I don’t attack defenseless women. Besides, Shelfhoc is a difficult place to assault with its ditch and rampart. Much better to prey on farmers.”
They smirked, then looked at him strangely. Rhodri thought he’d best leave. “I thank you for your hospitality, and your grain. Were we treated like men, we could farm our own land, but as it is—anyway, fewer will starve now.”
He mounted his pony and led his band at a gallop westward across the plain.
Ram relished the cold wind on his face and ignored the numbness of fingers frozen in
side leather gauntlets. He wasn’t even sure how far they had ridden when they caught sight of a distant group of riders galloping west.
“Milord,” Gervais shouted excitedly, “I would wager those are Welsh rebels fleeing Ruyton.”
Ram had no notion where Ruyton was, but here was an opportunity to rid himself of the fog in his brain. “Oui, you’re probably right. We’ll give chase. If they are headed for those hills yonder, they have some way to go and won’t be expecting pursuit. Give the command to pursue.”
The veteran Norman soldiers eagerly spurred their horses and had closed the gap on the Welsh band significantly when the lead rider, a mountain of a man, turned and saw them. He alerted the others, and they increased their speed. The moorland terrain was rugged. One false move could result in a horse’s hoof plunging into a pothole in the rolling landscape.
Suddenly, the leader’s horse lost its footing, and animal and rider went down. With incredible agility, as if it were an everyday occurrence, the huge warrior quickly found his feet and had his dagger out. One Norman soldier fell from his horse with a bone-chilling scream as the barbarian slashed the dagger across his belly, almost severing the lad in two with the power of his thrust.
Ram’s warrior blood rushed to his head. “Gervais, continue the pursuit. I’ll deal with this ruffian,” he yelled, reining in his snorting horse, dropping from the saddle and unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. The men continued on after the fleeing rebels.
Ram yanked off his helmet, threw it to the ground, and faced the barbarian, noting with surprise his opponent didn’t show signs of fear. Ram had the advantage. His enemy had no sword, but he’d seen what the man had done with his dagger and would have to be wary. He pulled off his gauntlets and blew on his cold fingers.
Perhaps facing him alone wasn’t a good idea.
The two warriors squared off—Ram trying to make the thrust with his sword that would disarm the rebel, the powerful Welsh barbarian attempting to plunge his dagger into a momentarily unguarded part of his body. It occurred to him he rarely came face to face with an enemy who matched him in height.
“I am Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere. On the authority of King William, I command your surrender,” Ram declared with calm assurance in Norman French.
The barbarian grinned, and to Ram’s surprise responded in the same language. “I am Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd. Ellesmere has an earl, you say? The Norman bastard isn’t my king, not anyone’s king yet, therefore I cannot and will not surrender to you.”
Ram became more determined now he knew his opponent’s identity. Without their fabled leader, the Welsh would falter. He thrust again and Rhodri deflected the blow. Sword and dagger became braced together as the two men struggled, their intense gazes locked on each other. He decided to use a well practiced maneuver and pulled away from the deadlock, taking Rhodri unawares. His sword flicked the dagger out of the Welshman’s hand. He advanced on the unarmed man, again offering him the chance to surrender.
“You don’t understand, Norman invader. Welshmen don’t surrender,” Rhodri sneered. Suddenly he lunged at Ram, knocking the wind out of him and Honneur out of his hand. He fell backwards onto a rocky outcropping. Pain lanced into his skull.
I survived Hastings to fall here?
His knees buckled and he reeled into oblivion.
Rubbing his bruised shoulder and gasping for breath, Rhodri retrieved his dagger and whistled for Ariel. It wasn’t the first time he’d fallen from a speeding horse and he’d learned to keep his body loose and roll. He thanked his ancestors for the intelligence of the loyal pony that had known enough to stay close. He remounted with difficulty, sickened by the ghastly memory of almost severing the Norman lad in two with his dagger. Fodder for more nightmares.
He galloped west, filled with a dread he had not seen the last of the arrogant Rambaud de Montbryce. Earl of Ellesmere, indeed!
Ascha
Ram didn’t recognize the unsmiling face of the woman bending over him, but her eyes showed concern. Weren’t angels supposed to be smiling when he reached paradise? He sank back into the murky haze.
“If I’m in heaven, why does my head feel like it’s broken?” he murmured groggily when he awoke some time later.
“That’s because you’re not dead, milord.”
“Gervais?” he muttered, half opening one eye.
His lieutenant stood at the foot of the bed on which he lay.
He lifted the linens to discover he was shrouded in a nightshirt several sizes too big.
“Oui, milord. I’m relieved you’re awake. Non, don’t try to get up. Milady says you must rest. You suffered a severe blow to the head.”
“Milady? Who is milady? I trust it was not she who removed my clothing?”
Gervais scowled as if the notion of him allowing such a thing was preposterous. “Her manservant assisted me to get you into bed. Lady Ascha Woolgar is mistress of this manor, milord. We brought you here because it was close and we were afraid you wouldn’t make it to Ellesmere. This is Shelfhoc Manor, near Ruyton. I have sent word to your brothers.”
“I don’t understand what happened,” Ram said with great exasperation.
“Milord, it’s not good to get agitated. When the barbarian lunged and knocked you off balance, you hit your head on a sharp rock. You have a large gash on the back of your head. The wound bled a great deal. We were on the way back and I saw what happened, but couldn’t get there in time to aid you. The rebel’s horse wasn’t hurt, and he remounted and fled. I had to decide whether to follow them, or help you. We had killed two of their men, but three of ours had fallen. I didn’t think it wise to pursue them into Wales.”
Ram felt like an incompetent fool. So much for the prowess of the great warrior Rambaud le Noir. The scourge of the border, the threat to peace had been at his mercy. He wondered why the Prince of Powwydd hadn’t simply finished him off. “You did the right thing, Gervais. He must have laughed his way back to Wales. Who is this Woolgar woman?” he demanded, his head throbbing. He remembered Mabelle’s soothing touch on his aching temples.
“She’s a Saxon noblewoman, milord.”
He was in the house of an enemy, but too tired to protest. He dozed off again and awoke later, sensing a presence. He didn’t know how much time had passed.
“Gervais?”
“I’m Lady Ascha Woolgar. This is my home,” a soft voice replied.
Ram opened bleary eyes and saw the woman he had previously thought was a vision. She looked to be about the same age as he. What he could see of her hair peeking out of the edges of the wimple was brown and curly. She was slender and her long thin fingers held a bowl and spoon. She bore a look of resigned defeat.
“I’ve brought you a nourishing vegetable broth,” she said without emotion. “You should eat only broth for a few days, until you feel more recovered.”
She was polite but didn’t smile, doubtless resentful of his intrusion into her life.
“You speak my language,” he replied.
She shrugged. “Many Saxons of the nobility speak Norman French. The Confessor encouraged it.”
“Lady Woolgar, I thank you for allowing my men to bring me here,” he said coldly.
“They didn’t give me much choice, my Lord Montbryce.”
“I regret—”
She raised her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s a reality I must accept. I’m a Saxon, a widow. You’re a Norman. You’re the conqueror, I’m the conquered.”
Normally an articulate man, he struggled to marshal a reply. He tried to sit up but dizziness overwhelmed him and his stomach roiled. He closed his eyes and waited until the fog cleared. “Dear lady, we’re Normans, not savages like the murderous Danes. Our king, your king, wishes peace and prosperity for his people, Saxon and Norman.”
He mouthed the words but knew in his heart that William’s plans for the total subjugation of these lands would result in great bloodshed. He wondered why he was bothering to justify his duke’s act
ions to a woman, especially a Saxon.
She bowed her head slightly. “I’ll let you finish your broth yourself. A manservant will see to your needs.”
An elderly man entered a few minutes later, assisted Ram to stand so he could relieve himself, and then removed the chamber pot. He too was polite but the undercurrent of Saxon resentment was palpable. The dizzying effort exhausted Ram and he slept again, relieved he had managed not to retch.
A warm hand on his forehead woke him. It felt good.
“Mabelle,” he croaked, still half asleep. He raised his hand and lay it atop the one on his forehead.
“It’s Lady Ascha.”
Ram’s eyes shot open, sending pain arrowing through his head. He quickly removed his hand.
The lady seemed to pay no attention to the abrupt movement. “There is no fever. You’re fortunate, Lord Montbryce.”
Ram’s head throbbed, his throat was dry. “Please, Lady Ascha, my name is Rambaud,” he said wearily.
“As you wish, Lord Rambaud. Who is Mabelle?”
“She’s my betrothed.” No that wasn’t right. “She was my betrothed—in Normandie. When I felt your touch, I was half asleep and I thought it was she.”
Surely I’m not blushing?
“Were you dreaming of her?”
“Perhaps I was,” he admitted, thinking it a strange question.
“But you’re no longer betrothed?”
“Non,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat, unwilling to share his torment with this foreigner.
For a few minutes she gazed down at him, not with animosity but with a strange sort of interest. He felt uncomfortable, and wished he wasn’t lying in a bed.
“I don’t dream of my husband,” she whispered, and her eyes glazed with unhappiness.
“You told me you’re a widow.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 12
