Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1)

by Anna Markland

  Once they reached their sanctuary, he continued, “After such cruel treatment, neither the people nor the land will recover for many years. You know I want the firm establishment of Norman rule, but William has let his anger get the better of him. It sickens me. He wants to terrify the English into obedience. These actions won’t benefit us in the long run.”

  He could voice these treacherous notions to his wife. She would never betray him. “What worries me in particular is that in this region some of the other Marcher Lords are capable of similar atrocities.”

  Morwenna

  Llys Powwydd, Wales

  When Rhodri thought back to the year the Normans had come, he sometimes regretted he had not killed Rambaud de Montbryce when he had him at his mercy. However, he had to grudgingly admit the Earl of Ellesmere, for such he had become, was an able administrator who had brought growth and prosperity to Ellesmere in the six years since the invasion.

  No one would now recognise the crude earthwork that had been Ellesmere Castle. It had become a well appointed Norman fortification, and the earl was constantly adding on to and improving it. He had even commissioned the building of a church. Rhodri’s own castle was comfortable, but his llys would never match the opulence of Ellesmere, not that he wanted it to.

  It galled him that the population of Ellesmere prospered and grew, whereas his own people eked out a life of poverty and deprivation. The Normans had encroached further into his country than the English Saxons and William the Conqueror seemed determined to crush rebellion with an iron fist. It had been six years of grinding oppression and persecution and Rhodri felt the weight of his role even more than he had when he had first assumed his father’s mantle. Life for him and his followers was perilous. If they were taken they would be tortured and executed.

  Yet, the harassing raids had to go on, fueled by a need for food and a burning desire to regain what was rightfully theirs. The Welsh wanted the Normans out of their lands. Rhodri would not succumb to the widely held belief they could not beat the invaders. He would fight them to his last breath. It was his destiny.

  He did succumb, however, to the insistent suggestions from Morgan ap Talfryn that he become betrothed to Morwenna. He wasn’t sure why he agreed. He needed a wife, and he needed heirs. But his memories of the girl were tinged with apprehension. He invited her and her father to his llys at Powwydd to sign the documents.

  Her entry into the neuadd stunned every male in the hall. All eyes turned to watch the flirty girl who had grown into a voluptuous woman. She was fair of hair and face with breasts and hips that promised fertility and pleasure. Her thick blond braid was coiled around one side of her neck and perched jauntily atop her breasts, rising and falling as she breathed. Her ever-present smile was bewitching, but her blue eyes assessed a man through long blond lashes in a way that belied her supposed innocence. Rhodri felt he was being stripped bare. Despite himself, he was aroused.

  After the formalities were completed, Morgan suddenly announced his intention to leave Llys Powwydd. Rhodri was taken aback. “I’d hoped to have a chance to get to know Morwenna. Will you not stay longer?”

  Morgan slapped him on the back and laughed nervously. “I’m leaving her here with you, Rhodri. She doesn’t want to return with me.”

  Rhodri considered the implications for her reputation. “She shouldn’t stay here with me.”

  “Nonsense,” Morgan replied. “In a llys this size you can provide her with a chaperone. It is your royal residence after all.”

  He had the uneasy feeling the man was relieved to be rid of his daughter.

  After only a few days, he understood her father’s wish to be gone. Morwenna’s refusal to behave like a noblewoman had the chaperone up in arms. She often sought Rhodri out, sitting in his lap by the open hearth, grinding against him. He was torn between arousal and disgust. Festivities and dancing carried on around them in the neuadd and large numbers ate their meals in the timbered hall. She seemed oblivious to his embarrassment at the disapproving looks from his people. She flirted with other men, who shied away, no doubt wondering why Rhodri did nothing to restrain her. He was at a loss—a feeling foreign to him.

  Before long, she chafed at the limitations of the llys. When he told her he and his men would soon be traveling to Cadair Berwyn, she flew into a rage until he gave permission for her to accompany them.

  “I can be of use to you, Rhodri,” she crooned, batting her eyelashes. “I could go to the earl’s castle and spy for you. I’ve been there many times. No one notices me.”

  Rhodri doubted that was true, but considered her offer. It might be useful to have a spy within Ellesmere.

  Sons

  Despite the ongoing problems with Welsh discontent, Ellesmere prospered. The spacious Great Hall was completed, and Ram proudly showed off the intricately carved tables and large tapestries—all brought from Normandie.

  Mabelle grew to love the region around the town. She befriended some of the Normans who had settled in the area prior to the conquest. There were mountains, moorlands, farms, wooded river valleys, and quaint villages. Ram explained to her it had come to be known as the Marches, because the Anglo-Saxon word for boundary was mearc.

  True to his promise, William granted Ram virtual independence and what amounted to kingship over his lands. Marcher lords ruled their territory as they saw fit, unlike other English lords who were directly accountable to the king. Ram could build castles, administer laws, wage wars, establish towns, salvage, claim treasure-trove, plunder and was allowed to fish for royal fish. The king’s plan was to subdue the Welsh without having to do it himself.

  Ram was often away dealing with Welsh incursions, holding courts which could try all cases except high treason, and administering his territory. He encouraged immigration from Normandie, established markets and expanded trade, especially in fine cloth and wine. Sheriffs received their appointments from him.

  Occasionally, he had to confiscate the estates of felons, and redistribute them to more trustworthy folk. His experience administering the Montbryce family estate was of great benefit to him, and he became known in the Marches as a firm but fair ruler, and a soldier to be reckoned with. He believed if people had enough food and the basic necessities of life, and were treated fairly, they would not want to rebel.

  He often told Mabelle, “I could do none of this without your presence here at Ellesmere. You’ve proven to be a formidable countess. I never worry about the castle when I’m away.”

  In recognition of Ram’s contributions, King William granted him another vast tract of land in Sussex in southern England, which brought four score and three manor houses under his control. It was also an area vital for the defense of England. He decided to deed ten of the estates to Hugh and ten to Antoine.

  Ram’s power and wealth were growing, as he had hoped. He had succeeded more than he ever thought possible in bringing honor, wealth and prestige to the Montbryce name. There was only one fly in the ointment.

  “The years are going by, Mabelle, with no sign of your getting with child. Why don’t you ask Myfanwy’s advice? You’re still relatively young at five and twenty, but I’m approaching a score and ten, and the lack of an heir is beginning to worry me.”

  “Me too,” she admitted.

  If I’m barren, he’ll have to put me aside. I’ll die of grief.

  Myfanwy loved life at the castle. She passed on to the countess her recipes for herbal remedies and salves, and the two women got to know each other. They developed a fondness, and Myfanwy was happy Mabelle de Montbryce trusted her. Her healing powers, which some whispered were magical, depended a great deal on the trust of the person being treated.

  She went often to the village to take coin and food to Rhonwen. She confided how worried she was the countess seemed to be having difficulty conceiving. “She and the earl have been married for years, without issue. Should I broach the subject? I have many herbal concoctions to offer.”

  Rhonwen shrugged. “Perhaps it’s t
he husband who is the problem?”

  Myfanwy laughed. “Pshaw, child. Where do you get these notions? He’s a virile man if ever I saw one. Can’t keep his hands off his wife.”

  Joy surged through Mabelle when, after only one month of Myfanwy’s herbal ministrations, she missed her flux.

  Ram often chafed Ellesmere was not as fine as the castle at Montbryce. He worked tirelessly to make improvements to the buildings and grounds, determined to make their home in this foreign land as grand as the ancestral one in Normandie.

  Knowing she was pregnant, she waited until he once more began his complaints about Ellesmere. They were alone in their chamber when Ram finished his usual lament with, “I only want a castle suitable for my beautiful wife.”

  “—and child,” she added.

  It took him a few moments to understand her meaning, and then he leapt from his chair and embraced her. He picked her up and twirled her around until they were both dizzy, then set her back on her feet and kissed her deeply.

  “Are you sure?” he rasped. “It’s been so long.”

  “I’ve only missed one month but I’m sure.”

  “You’re the perfect wife,” he crowed.

  Mabelle laughed. “Yes, I am, but I couldn’t have done it without the perfect husband. Apart from you and me, only Giselle and Myfanwy are aware of it. Can we keep it that way for a while?”

  He kissed her forehead. “Of course, my beloved. But it will be hard for me not to climb up to the battlements and shout it from the rooftops.”

  For as long as she lived she would remember the first time he’d ever called her his beloved.

  The happiness and relief that swept over him confirmed Ram’s suspicions.

  I’m in love with her.

  But he was first and foremost a soldier, the king’s man. His steadfast commitment to William would bring more handsome rewards.

  What is this alchemy we have between us?

  He had only to touch her for his manhood to harden. Not even touch—the mere sight of her was enough. And now she would bear him a child. He was a happy man. He couldn’t imagine life without Mabelle. If he had been forced to acknowledge his wife was barren and seek another—it was something he didn’t want to contemplate.

  As her confinement drew closer, Mabelle grew more nervous. She hoped Ram would return home from the sortie against the Welsh before the event occurred, though she was confident all would go well.

  Her every need had been taken care of for several sennights, and she had grown bored. She felt fat, bloated and unattractive, despite the fact her husband told her repeatedly she looked lovely and lush. She lay in bed, longing for his attentions, unable to get comfortable, and resigned to being awake as the dawn broke. Gradually, she became aware of a dull ache permeating her belly.

  She lay perfectly still. The ache passed. Perhaps she should call Giselle to prepare a bath for her, to soothe her troubled spirit.

  As sleep claimed her, the ache came again, this time more forcefully and for a longer period. She had never borne a child before, and had assumed the pains of labor would be sharp, intense stabs. Now she wondered if perhaps these aches were signals her child wanted to be born. She rolled out of bed slowly, pausing as the pain caught her again.

  Oui, something is happening.

  “Giselle, Giselle, viens vite, come quickly.”

  The maidservant bustled in from the connecting chamber, her red hair uncharacteristically awry, her face flushed with excitement. “Milady, is it the bébé?”

  Mabelle nodded so hard it made her dizzy. “Fetch the midwife, and Myfanwy.”

  Fifteen hours later, clinging to the birthing stool brought days before in readiness, bathed in sweat and screaming loudly, Mabelle feared the hour of her death was at hand. But the experienced midwife told her calmly everything was normal, and she saw no reason to be anxious. “It’s a good idea to scream. It will make you feel better.”

  Bertha used simple and natural procedures, relying on pepper to provoke sneezing. “I’m confident you’ll not need the shroud you had made at the behest of the bishop,” she reassured Mabelle. “But it’s as well you obeyed his insistence on confessing your sins.”

  Myfanwy comforted her with various soothing herbal remedies and oils.

  Mabelle sought solace during her labors in praying to Sainte Margaret, the patron saint of pregnant women. As her child came into the world and her last cry of relief rent the air, a maidservant brought word that Ram had ridden into the bailey and been informed of events. She closed her eyes and thanked God he’d come home safely.

  A few minutes later, he gasped her name as he threw open the door of their chamber. His wild eyes fell upon her as she lay back, feeling spent and disheveled. And then their child made his presence known with a lusty wail.

  “You’re beautiful,” he called to her as she smiled at him weakly.

  “My lord,” Bertha cried, ushering him out, “you shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry. You have a fine healthy son, but your wife needs to rest now. I’ll bring the child to you when we’ve cleansed him. He too has had a long journey.”

  As Ram was shooed out, the midwife said to Giselle, “Trust the father to turn up as soon as it’s over.”

  The four women laughed, though Mabelle barely had enough strength left to do so as Myfanwy handed her a steaming bowl of chamomile tea.

  Ram had ridden hard to get home, soon working up a sweat in the warm August weather, driven by a premonition his child would be born that day. Though exhausted, joy overwhelmed him that he had been at home when his son was born.

  When Bertha appeared with his babe swaddled in warm wrappings to keep out the unavoidable draughts of the castle, he took his heir into his arms and gazed upon him. He could scarcely believe he and Mabelle had created this wondrous being he held. What a wife she had turned out to be. They would name the boy Robert, after the king’s father.

  “Robert de Montbryce,” he murmured, cradling the child, “I’m your father, Rambaud de Montbryce, son of Bernard de Montbryce. It’s to my everlasting sorrow my father didn’t get a chance to see you. What does life hold in store for you? You’re the long-awaited heir to a rich Norman heritage. Wherever your travels take you, I hope you’ll always remember that.”

  Ignoring the strident admonitions of the midwife, he strode off with the babe still in his arms, to the chamber where his wife lay. The women had cleansed Mabelle, combed her hair and assisted her back to bed. She was exhausted, but he saw only her radiance. Smiling, she reached out her arms for her child, and he carefully handed Robert to her. She coaxed the child to her breast and he tried to latch on.

  Ram’s shaft hardened. “I was nervous about holding a baby,” he confided with a grin, “but I’m good at it.”

  Mabelle had noticed it too. “You are, Ram.” She smiled at his obvious physical discomfort. “In many noble families the father never touches the babes. I know only too well how a child needs a father’s love.”

  By February, Mabelle had conceived again over the previous Yuletide. As the time for the birth approached, she enjoyed sitting by the window with her ladies, sewing busily, looking up from her work to see the fields in lambing-time. She watched shepherds clad in warm sheepskins drive the sheep into enclosures.

  Soon I’ll have another little lamb of my own.

  She liked being a mother. Robert was a strong, healthy lad. Everyone who saw him admired his dark hair and blue eyes, and commented on his resemblance to his father. She wondered what her next child would be like. She spent a lot of her time in the nursery with her son, and preferred to nurse him, instead of using a wet nurse. She told him often how much she loved him, words she had never heard from her own father.

  How is it I find it easy to tell my child I love him but I can’t tell Ram?

  When Ram pined for Normandie, Mabelle chided him. “Remember, Ram, our son was born in this foreign land. It’s his land.”

  Ram always objected. “Robert is a Norman first and foremo
st. When I’m gone, it’s the Norman lands that will pass to him. They’re the important holdings and titles, the ones passed down in our family before. The Montbryce legacy.”

  Idly patting her belly, he smiled. “Our second son will inherit our English lands and titles. Those lands I’ve won for myself. They are Ellesmere lands.”

  In September of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Three, Ram and Mabelle welcomed their second son, Baudoin, another almost identical copy of his father. Again, everything went normally, and the midwife and Myfanwy saw her through it.

  As time progressed, and the boys grew, Ram didn’t get to spend a great deal of time with his young sons, but when he did, he treated them much as his own father had treated him—with a firm hand but with love. He often remonstrated with Mabelle that she doted on them too much. Robert and Baudoin were excited to see him return from his travels. Whenever he was away fighting the barbaric Welsh, Mabelle was consumed with worry for him.

  The following year, Edgar the Aetheling returned to Scotland. Disillusioned by further disastrous attempts to regain the throne, he succumbed to Malcolm’s urging that he abandon his claims and make peace with the Conqueror.

  The despondency among the Saxon refugees in Scotland was palpable. They congregated more and more at Court, drawn by their patroness, Margaret, Queen of Scotland.

  Many among the Scottish nobility resented what they considered to be the anglicization of their Celtic court, but they were afraid to voice their criticisms, given Margaret’s well known piety, and her husband’s besottedness.

  Ascha felt isolated after the deaths of her kinsmen. Caedmon was her only solace. She instilled in her son, and encouraged among the Saxons at court, a sense of great pride that he was the son of Sir Caedmon Woolgar, a housecarl who had fallen with his king at Hastings. It was the stuff of legend that the royal bodyguards had fought to the death rather than surrender.