“Yes. My husband was a warrior, a thane of the king. He’s dead.”
A feeling of dread crept into Ram’s gut. Many Saxon nobles had died on the field at Hastings that terrible day.
“You don’t want to ask me, so I’ll tell you, since there’s no shame in it. My husband, Sir Caedmon Woolgar, was a huscarl to King Harold. He died at Hastings. At least, we assume he did, since he hasn’t returned home.”
Ram thought of the mass grave where Harold’s huscarls lay buried. They had been determined to fight to the last man. Could the Saxon giant who had come close to removing his head have been Sir Caedmon Woolgar? He saw no point in avoiding the truth.
“I fought at Hastings,” he said forthrightly.
“Yes,” she replied quietly, smiling an enigmatic smile.
Convinced though he was of the righteousness of William’s conquest, this woman’s plight brought home to him the often terrible consequences of war for those left behind. Men fought for glory and honor, and often to protect what was theirs, but there was no doubt women were often left to bear the burden of sorrow, and the weight of castles and manors with no man to defend them or provide.
None of this would have happened if Harold hadn’t broken his oath.
By the next day, the dizziness had abated, and he left his bed. The manservant assisted him to dress. “Lady Woolgar will receive you in her solar, if you’ll follow me.”
Ascha was seated on a wooden bench by the window, the oiled covering drawn back, despite the chilly air. The embroidery on her lap lay untouched as she gazed out at the surrounding lands. A maidservant sat by her side, sewing.
“Leave us, Enid,” she said softly when she saw Ram enter.
“Lady Ascha, I trust you’re well today?” he ventured.
She didn’t look up at him. “As well as can be expected.”
“I would offer my condolences, but we both know it would sound hollow. I was your husband’s enemy. I strove to kill him and his comrades. I don’t regret it. I may have been the one to deal his death blow.”
Had her expression softened slightly?
She looked him in the eye. “I don’t lay blame at your door. My husband was a fierce warrior. He gloried in war. He died doing what he was born for. In a conflict there must be winners and losers. Sir Caedmon wasn’t on the winning side this time.”
Sad grey eyes distracted him momentarily, then he recalled his concerns. “What of your manor, Lady Ascha? I don’t wish to add to your burdens, but it’s our king’s wish that we strengthen this border region against the Welsh. You’re not in a position of strength here, through no fault of your own. Many would covet such a manor. Rhodri ap Owain was close by, as you know. Gervais tells me you hold more than five hides of land, and that there’s a church, a kitchen and a fortress gate. While you do have a rampart and ditch, he doesn’t believe you could hold off a large attack.”
She fidgeted nervously. “I don’t know what will happen, Lord Rambaud, the grief and uncertainty is too new. I’m a woman alone.”
Her grief touched a nerve. He too was alone, abandoned by the one woman he wanted. Perhaps…
She sobbed, so quietly he wasn’t immediately aware she was crying. The embroidery fell to the floor. He strode across to sit by her side, hesitant to take her hand, not knowing how to bring comfort.
He retrieved the embroidery, but as he returned it to her lap, their fingers touched. She seized his hand and gripped it with both hers. Trembling, she leaned into him and he nervously put his arm around her shoulders, trying to bring comfort.
As the sobs wracked her slender body, the wimple slipped from her hair, and brown curls tumbled to her hips.
She’s younger than I thought. And beautiful.
His body responded. He ran his fingers through her silky hair.
She appeared embarrassed by the crack that had appeared in her armor, but he continued to murmur soothing words and soon her weeping subsided. She blushed when she glimpsed the bulge in his leggings.
He cleared his throat, extricated his hand, withdrew his arm, and came to his feet. “Lady Ascha, I’ll place you and your manor under my protection. I don’t intend to take this place for myself, but others will no doubt try. I’ll station a contingent of my men-at-arms here, and provide a steward to help you manage your estate.”
He suspected fellow Normans might be more of a threat than the Welsh, but said nothing of this.
She stared at him, open mouthed. “I thank you for your unexpected compassion but I can’t accept. I’ve nothing to give you in return, Lord Montbryce.”
“I want nothing in return, Lady Ascha. If my future wife was in a similar position, I’d like to think some champion would protect her.”
“Your future wife?” she murmured.
He clenched his jaw. “I misspoke. Our separation is recent. It will take some time to get used to.”
Antoine had insisted he pursue Mabelle, but if she cared about him she would have stayed, wouldn’t she? An alliance with a Saxon widow might prove beneficial. Ascha Woolgar was beautiful and in desperate straits. He doubted she would reject the notion of marriage to a Norman earl. Why then did the prospect not sit well with him?
His mind in turmoil, he took his leave and returned to his chamber, hoping things would seem clearer on the morrow.
Ascha liked the sound of the word champion but not Rambaud’s slip of the tongue regarding his future wife. Perhaps he had loved the woman, though few noblemen of her acquaintance cared a whit about their wives, and certainly she and Caedmon Woolgar hadn’t married for love.
She was drawn to this Norman warrior deposited into her care in a way she’d never been attracted to a man before. He had a sensitivity her brutish husband lacked. She’d held on to his hands like a rock in her sea of fear and uncertainty, and the unexpected intimacy of his arm around her shoulder had sent a warm shiver through her body.
And he’s not married.
Still dressed in nightgown and bedrobe, Ascha wasn’t cool and detached the next morning. “I wish you weren’t leaving. Head wounds can be dangerous and the effects often linger. You should rest here longer, Lord Rambaud,” she cajoled when he told her of his decision to leave forthwith. Her hand lay on his arm as she spoke, and she looked directly into his eyes.
Ram met her gaze, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture, and the use of his given name, not to mention her attire. Desire flickered in the grey depths.
She’s lonely. She desires me.
The thought aroused and dismayed him. She was an attractive woman who had been without a man for a considerable time.
What harm could a kiss do?
He had been celibate for months. After meeting Mabelle, he’d lost interest in Joleyne—but his lovely refugee had left him. Perhaps he and Ascha were destined to meet. William had talked often of the importance of marriages binding Saxon and Norman. In these dangerous new lands he could be killed before he made it home to Normandie. Hugh was right about war rousing a man’s libido. Since Hastings he seemed to be constantly hard, constantly needy.
“Lady Ascha,” he murmured as he bent his head to kiss her.
His lips brushed hers as she breathed, “Lord Rambaud.”
They kissed. Her soft warmth sent blood rushing to his groin. His tongue coaxed her lips and she allowed him entry. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and she clung to him as he pressed his arousal to her body. “I didn’t love my husband,” she whispered. “War was his life. He didn’t understand the needs of a woman.”
Intense emotions, pent up since Hastings, swept over him—the terror of the battle, the horror and stench of the bloodshed and broken bodies, the sickening brutality, the constant homesickness, the exhaustion of travel, the heavy responsibilities put upon him by his duke, the unbearable aching for his infuriating Mabelle, the frustration of Rhodri’s escape, the concern for Hugh—all conspired to render him senseless, his only instinct a need to possess and be possessed. He held a woman in his arms who had admitted n
ever knowing the pleasures of passion. It was more than he could resist. He wanted to tear the clothes from her body and take her on the floor, to liberate her from the sexual frustration she had endured.
He ran his hands over her body, along the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the flesh of her thigh. He gathered her up, intending to carry her to the chamber where she had tended him. He felt a momentary dizziness as he rose, but braced his legs and steadied himself. She curled her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest.
Once in the chamber, she disrobed quickly, then inflamed him further by helping him remove his clothing. She gasped and licked her lips when she saw his rigid manhood and her eyes burned with wanting.
He didn’t have to spend long preparing her. As a spasm of release tore through her body, he raised himself above her, positioned his shaft at her opening, and groaned as he slid inside. They quickly found each other’s rhythm and she smiled, her hands reaching up to his chest, thumbs brushing his male nipples. In a moment of clarity, he rasped, “Have no fear, I’ll spill myself outside your body.”
She dug her nails into his shoulders. “No, Rambaud.”
“But—”
She gripped his hips fiercely, pulling his body to hers. “No! Fill me! I can’t keep you. I want every bit of you. These moments are all I have.”
The intensity of her words inflamed him. He shuddered and bellowed his euphoria as his seed pulsed into her body.
Later, as his wits slowly returned, a vivid image of Mabelle lying by the lake, barely covered by her chemise, rose up in his mind. He abruptly turned away from Ascha. “This was wrong,” he said hoarsely. “You’re a widow. It was dishonorable to take advantage of you.”
But his greatest regret had little to do with taking advantage. How could he have sacrificed what he wanted to give to Mabelle by bedding another woman, no matter how great her need, or his? Mabelle was his destiny, brought to him through some miracle he didn’t understand, which he had tried to deny. Though she had broken the betrothal, he felt guilty for betraying her with this woman. What he had experienced with Ascha was simply physical release. Antoine was right. If he wanted Mabelle, he’d have to fight for her.
“You didn’t take advantage of me,” Ascha whispered languidly. “I took advantage of you. I sense you’re a man in love. My husband didn’t love me, didn’t understand the importance of touch for a woman. I thank you for the gift you’ve given me today. The memory of it will help see me through many difficult days. I don’t regret what we’ve shared. I don’t expect you to love me.”
Confusion whirled in Ram’s head. “I must leave now. I’ll be your champion but I can’t be your lover.”
She grew agitated as he dressed, and came to her knees on the bed, wrapping the linens around her body. “Rambaud,” she stammered, “I lied. I need you—please. Stay a few days.”
He shook his head, desperate to be gone from this manor. “I cannot.”
He strode out of the chamber. She would be safe under his protection, but he prayed she would find a good husband some day. She was a woman with a deeply hidden passion Woolgar had been unable to ignite, and he silently thanked God for Mabelle and the erotic joys her touch and her kisses promised. A chill went up his spine when he thought of telling Mabelle about his liaison. Honor demanded it. Had she been faithful to him? He wanted to believe she was still a virgin but, given the life she had led, the odds were…
His fury grew at the idea of Mabelle sharing another man’s bed, and he was dismayed he had bedded this woman and was now hurrying away. This was not behavior worthy of a Montbryce. His heart was in knots. Had the brutality of war destroyed his honor?
A vague dread he might have impregnated Ascha wriggled like a worm in his belly, but he reasoned that was unlikely after only one coupling. She had no children. It was possible she was barren anyway.
He left soldiers to guard Shelfhoc but the contingent that rode away with him was still a force to be regarded with respect. As he made for Ellesmere, he deliberately pushed away the tantalizing vision insinuating itself into his head of a maiden with golden hair, lying on a grassy bank. He had tried to deny his passion for Mabelle, but Ascha’s words echoed over and over—I sense you are a man in love.
Through the window, Lady Ascha Woolgar watched until the Normans were completely out of sight, her fingers absently rubbing the oiled window covering. From the moment she had set eyes on the magnificent Norman, feelings had stirred within her she had never known with her husband. She had tried unsuccessfully to deny them.
She sank to her knees sobbing, swathed in bed linens, feeling more fulfilled, yet more bereft than she had ever felt. It was unlikely she would ever see Rambaud de Montbryce again, but she would remember the feel of his touch, the fulfillment of his manhood inside her, forever.
Dire Tidings
His brothers were solicitous upon his return to Ellesmere, but a preoccupation with their father’s illness overrode their curiosity and they seemed satisfied with a cursory explanation. They agreed to ride to Westminster, where they received permission to return home. William was distraught at the news the comte was ill; Ram deemed it wiser not to tell him about Mabelle.
They rode to the south coast where they took ship for Normandie. A sennight after receiving Mabelle’s missive, the Montbryce brothers were galloping into the bailey of the castle, long after sunset.
Fernand Bonhomme appeared and grooms came to take their mounts.
“Fernand,” Ram embraced his trusted steward, “you look haggard.”
To his consternation, the man began to sob. “Milord. Forgive me. We are desolate. Your father…my wife…”
It took a moment for the terrible truth to dawn. His gut roiled as a chill raced up his spine. The walls seemed to be closing in. He couldn’t speak. His beloved father couldn’t be…
“Our father is dead?” Hugh rasped.
Fernand nodded. “Two days ago. The same day as Vangeline. A pestilence. Many have died all across the Calvados. Thank God you have come, but we’ve already laid him to rest in the crypt. I thought…”
They stood in stunned silence for several minutes. It had never occurred to Ram that his father might die. Did Mabelle know?
Antoine put a hand on Fernand’s shoulder. “You did the right thing, as always. We are distraught at the news of your wife’s death.”
“Merci, milord. Vangeline was a good wife and helpmate. We’ll miss her sorely. And your father—it was a desperate time, but he succumbed quickly and didn’t suffer. Now you’re the comte, milord Rambaud.”
Ram tried to marshal his scattered thoughts. He wanted desperately to cry out his anguish in Mabelle’s arms. “Oui, Fernand, but I would prefer our dear father was still with us. The hour is late. I suppose my betrothed has retired to her chamber?”
“Non, milord. She’s gone.”
He felt like a fool. How could he have forgotten? He swayed, fearing he might retch. Antoine linked arms with him. “Walk with me, brother.”
They came to the Great Hall, a place of many happy memories, now dark and empty. Giselle appeared, her face grim. She tearfully embraced them each in turn. Ram understood the grief that choked off her words.
“Milord Ram,” she finally cried after blowing her nose, “I tried to persuade your lady to stay, but she wouldn’t listen. She was unhappy here and believed her place was at Alensonne.”
“I suppose that’s where she’s gone?”
“Oui, milord.”
Ram hadn’t really believed she had left him until this moment. Filled with an urge to vent his rage, he leaned his forehead against the wall and pounded the cold stone with his fists.
“Be calm,” Antoine shouted. “You can go after her, convince her to return.”
“There won’t be time. I must return to England for the coronation. She’s left me, and no wonder. But I’m not a man to go crawling on my hands and knees.”
Hugh put his trembling hand on Ram’s shoulder. “Let
’s go down to the crypt. I want to pray by father’s tomb.”
A few minutes later, Ram stood in the cold, candlelit crypt, flanked by his grieving brothers, his arm around Hugh’s shaking shoulders. They felt their loss keenly, but his heart ached too for Mabelle, the beautiful refugee he had done his utmost to alienate.
The three returned to the hall, where they reminisced together until after midnight, then Ram decided to clear his head out on the battlements before retiring. If he slept at all, it would be from sheer exhaustion.
He came at last to his chamber and took out the crumpled parchment he’d carried since the day he’d received it at Ellesmere.
He read it again, then pounded the bolster over and over in frustration, until he collapsed onto it. “I don’t want to be released, Mabelle. I don’t covet your lands, I covet you. I want you as my wife, the mother of my children.”
Antoine and Hugh greeted him the next day when he arrived in the Great Hall to break his fast, still tired after a sleepless night.
They couldn’t hide their excitement.
“What scheme have you two plotted now?” he asked wearily.
Antoine grinned. “If you leave immediately and ride at a gallop, you can reach Alensonne in a days. One day to get there, one day to persuade Mabelle to return with you, one day back, a day to wed her and bed her, two days to get to Westminster. Voilà, you’ll arrive a day before the coronation on Christmas Day.”
Ram shook his head. “Antoine, if I’m not at William’s coronation, I can bid adieu to my earldom. We could miss the tide, encounter the wrong winds.”
“The choice is yours. The earldom or Mabelle de Valtesse. Hugh and I are willing to ride with you. You may need some protection from her father. Or perhaps from Mabelle.”
Ram hesitated. What if he went to Alensonne and she rejected him? But he had to try. If he didn’t go now, he could be mired in England, possibly for years. “Tell Bonhomme to get provisions ready for the journey. I’ll get the horses saddled and the men-at-arms organized.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 13
