At seven years of age, Caedmon Brice Woolgar was a strong, affectionate boy, a mirror image of his real father. Ascha was unconcerned about the resemblance, finding comfort in it. She was confident the two would never meet.
Accident
One of the powers granted to the Marcher Lords was the right to raise militias. Ram often recruited and trained new soldiers. While the ranks might consist of local people, the commanders of these men were always Normans. Giselle frequently dropped hints to the earl that her sons would make fine officers if they were only given a chance to come from Normandie.
Mabelle didn’t pay attention to any of the details regarding such matters, busy as she was with her home and children. One winter’s day, she was in the hall, sewing with ladies of the household, chatting about the impressive tapestry they had heard Bishop Eude had commissioned to commemorate the conquest of England. It was being made by the Anglo-Saxon seamsters at Eude’s demesne at Canterbury in Kent but would later be sent to Bayeux in Normandie.
Robert and Baudoin were playing with their nursemaids near Mabelle’s feet.
“I hear rumors it will be over two hundred feet in length,” Giselle commented. “The Anglo-Saxons are famous for their needlework.”
“Apparently, it will show the historic events of the battle, as well as those leading up to the invasion,” added Mabelle. “If it’s being embroidered, then it’s not a tapestry is it? That would mean it would have to be woven.”
One of the nursemaids asked, “My lady, why is it being sent to Bayeux?”
“Bishop Eude is building a cathedral there.”
While they were talking, her husband entered with some of his commanders. She glanced over to watch him. Even among this group of physically fit, elite fighting men he stood out. She fought the urge to rush over and press her fingers into his powerful thighs. The soft black hair hidden beneath the fine linen of his shirt called to her, and she smiled, thinking how shocked the onlookers would be if she tore the shirt off his muscled body.
Heat prickled her skin as he shifted his stance, and her eyes went unbidden to his sex, just there, hidden under the long doublet, nestled, ready to spring to life if he looked up and saw her hungry gaze. She averted her eyes, aware her face had flushed, that she had almost drooled.
Pray no one noticed.
The men’s voices drifted into her returning awareness. They were discussing a new Norman knight who was due to arrive soon to take over command of one of the divisions.
“Seems he asked to be assigned to Ellesmere, milord,” Gervais remarked.
Ram arched his brows. “Interesting. I wonder why?”
He glanced over to see if Giselle was within hearing, clearly wishing to avoid that hornet’s nest.
“I expect he knows where the power is, milord.”
The other men chuckled their agreement with this assessment.
“He’s probably aware you have sons. Your heirs will inherit your lands, and they won’t revert to the king. That kind of stability leads to opportunity.”
Ram smiled. “And the name of this wise nobleman?”
“Giroux. I’ve good reports on him. He arrived recently from Normandie. Good family. Capable soldier.”
Ram picked up a chart and studied it. “Sounds familiar—but I can’t place it.”
Mabelle’s heart thudded and she suddenly felt cold. Ram didn’t seem to be listening. Had she heard correctly? Could this be the son of the man her father had blinded and mutilated years ago? It was not a common name, and why had he asked specifically to come to Ellesmere? She had heard nothing of the Giroux family since coming to England but they were partly responsible for the years of wandering exile she had endured. She resolved to speak to Ram about it.
Later that night he reassured her. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
He had remembered where he’d heard the name before but was in the process of seductively undressing his wife. “After Arnulf’s death, there was no rumor of any ongoing threat from that family.”
She persisted. “But why would he ask to come here?”
“News of our power and reputation has spread throughout Normandie. He’s probably an ambitious young man seeking opportunity for advancement with a powerful Marcher Lord. Don’t worry,” he cajoled, playfully rolling her hardening nipple between his finger and thumb, grinning at her, “I can assign him where you’ll never have to meet him.”
She lost coherent thought as the passion that always took hold of her the moment Ram touched her did just that.
Not long after his discussion with Mabelle, Ram mounted Fortis, intending to ride out to inspect the Saturday market. He had always been an accomplished horseman, and was puzzled as to why his favorite mount seemed frenzied. It was a spirited horse, but that was the sort of steed he liked to ride. He had been relieved the stallion had adapted well to his new life in England after the rigors of Hastings.
Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to calm the snorting animal, which reared so suddenly Ram was thrown heavily to the hard ground. Giroux rushed from nearby to calm the distraught horse. Gervais ran to his earl’s side, pulling him away from the flailing hooves. Ram was having difficulty rising, only managing it with the help of his lieutenant. He knew immediately he had cracked a rib or two.
“What the devil is wrong with that horse?” he shouted, as pain snaked through his chest, bending him double.
“I’ll look him over, milord,” Giroux answered. “He seems calmer now. I’ll see to him.”
“Gervais, help me to my chamber. I fear my wife will need to assist me. I believe I’ve broken something.”
Mabelle had apparently heard the commotion and hurried into the bailey. Gervais, almost carrying his earl, told her what had happened. She issued commands to servants as she helped her husband climb the steps. They assisted Ram to their chamber, where he sat on the edge of the bed, shaking.
Giselle and Myfanwy arrived with armfuls of linen cloths. The Welsh woman prepared a potion for pain, and Ram downed it in one, knowing firsthand how effective her potions were. The women tore the cloth into strips and bound him after Myfanwy’s gentle examination confirmed the likelihood of broken ribs.
“Yr Arglwydd Montbryce,” the healer said with authority, “you must rest for at least a fortnight. The only time you may get out of bed is when I come to bathe you in knitbone. Only thus will the bones start to heal.”
His protests became less forceful when the draught she had given him took effect.
“Thank goodness you’ve at least stopped shaking,” Mabelle murmured with relief, helping tuck warm linens around him.
Rhonwen loved to listen to her mother’s accounts of happenings at the castle and longed to assist with the healing there. Though she lived with the family of the village smith, and enjoyed his protection, they were not her kin. However, she was never bored, being called upon often to use her skills as her own reputation grew. Folk said she had inherited not only her mother’s skill but also her mystical aura.
One evening, Myfanwy’s exhaustion was evident as she staggered into the village. Rhonwen bade her sit and handed her a bowl of herbal tisane. Her mother took a long draught of the liquid and her spirits revived. “Thank you, daughter. I feel better now. What a day we’ve had at the castle. Arglwydd Montbryce was thrown from his horse.”
Rhonwen sat down facing her mother, her eyes wide. “Was he hurt?”
Myfanwy nodded, inhaling the aroma of the tisane. “Yes. Badly. Broken ribs. I’ve bound them, and ordered him to soak in knitbone every second day for a fortnight.”
Rhonwen made a face. “That will not be pleasant.”
Myfanwy chuckled. “No, and he’s a proud man. He won’t like it. At the moment he’s compliant because I gave him a potion, but once he’s alert—”
“How did it happen?”
Her mother did not answer right away. She seemed uneasy. “It was strange. The earl has ridden that horse for years. It’s his favorite mount. Yet th
e beast was apparently frenzied. The earl’s lieutenant had to pull his lordship out from under the flailing hooves, and a new soldier, Phillippe Giroux, managed to grab the reins and calm the animal.”
Rhonwen shivered. “Giroux loiters around the village. I don’t like him. He ogles women.”
Myfanwy put down her bowl and took hold of Rhonwen’s hands. “My countess doesn’t trust him. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t. Stay away from him.”
Morwenna verch Morgan sat alone in the cottage her father owned near the village of Ellesmere. Her sire had given in to her insistent demands she be rescued from the boredom of Rhodri’s fortress. He had delivered her safely and then left her to her own devices, as usual. She smirked. He was afraid of her, believing she had inherited what he called “the dark arts” from her long dead mother.
Villagers who had faith in hexes and spells sought her out and paid her well. The location provided her with a place from which she could spy on the nearby castle. No-one paid attention to a plainly clad maiden wandering around with a basket. Some acknowledged her with a wave and a smile if they had seen her before. The stables were a particularly useful place to overhear gossip.
And it was in the stables of Ellesmere Castle where she stumbled upon what she had been seeking—a Norman accomplice.
The soldier did not know it yet, but she had seen him tamper with the saddle of the horse that had become frenzied and thrown the earl. He had rushed forward in a show of calming the horse after the incident, unaware she still watched from her hiding place.
She would find out why one of the earl’s own men wanted to harm him, and use the knowledge to her advantage. The man was handsome—tall and well-muscled. Perhaps there would be other benefits to an alliance with him.
She waited until he had carefully lifted the saddle from the still nervous black stallion before she crept from her hiding place and came up behind him. “He’s calmer now.”
The Norman whirled around, his arms full of the saddle, his jaw clenched. His eyes darted to the horse, then back to her. She took a step toward him, unafraid.
“Get out of here, wench,” he said angrily, heaving the saddle onto the half-wall of the stall.
She held her ground, head cocked to one side, a finger pressed to her chin. “What do you suppose would make a horse so frenzied one minute, then calm the next?”
The Norman eyed her suspiciously, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. He gripped her elbow. “It’s no concern of yours. Be gone.”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “Are you sure you want to shoo me away, Norman? Your interests may be the same as mine.”
He grabbed her roughly by the waist with one hand and pulled her to his body. “Is this what you’re after?” he asked sarcastically, pressing his hard male length against her.
She ground her hips into him and looked into his eyes. “Oh, that and much more. Find me in the village. Ask for the cottage where you’ve heard you can buy a hex.”
He sneered, but held her more tightly. “You don’t look like a witch.”
She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “You might say I am someone as interested as you in seeing the earl fall.”
He tensed and watched her leave, his face red with anger.
She smiled as she made her way home. When she next saw Rhodri, she would hopefully have a plan to offer for ridding the Marches of the earl and his spawn.
Recovery
Ram realized he wasn’t an easy patient, protesting loudly at the indignity of being forced, every second day, to soak in a tub of hot water darkened by the green of the knitbone. It necessitated the removal of his bindings, and their reapplication afterwards. He was too big for the women to wrestle into the tub, and Vaillon had to enlist the aid of another male servant.
“That cursed Welsh woman will kill me.”
Mabelle stood with hands on hips. “Ram, much as I adore your magnificent body, it’s not a pleasant task for me to dry you after you’ve been soaking in the wretched comfrey. But it will ease the swelling.”
Ram squirmed, aware he had imposed the duty on her. “I’m sorry. I don’t want any of the servants doing it. It’s humiliating.”
Mabelle’s eyes sparkled as she baited him. “You’re ruining every pair of braies you have, with your insistence on keeping them on in the tub. The laundress is less than pleased.”
“I don’t feel very magnificent,” he whined, secretly wishing he had the energy to display his magnificence for her. “And I’ll not expose myself to all and sundry.”
An active, virile man, he chafed at spending time in bed, particularly since he was unable to make love to his wife. It was torture. Her nearness in the bed at night, or when she came to sit with him during the day, never failed to arouse him.
“It’s difficult for you too. We’ve never been able to temper our passion for one another.”
After close to a fortnight in bed, he was stroking her breasts and bemoaning his plight yet again when she rose and knelt between his legs. “Lay still, Earl of Ellesmere.”
She feathered light kisses up the inside of one thigh, and down the other. Bending his legs slightly, she tenderly stroked the backs of his knees. His erection had sprung to life before she had started the kisses, and now she grasped the base of his manhood. She leaned forward and ran her tongue up the length of him.
“Mabelle,” he gasped, keeping as still as he could, flattening his palms against the bed.
She moved her mouth rhythmically on his rigid manhood, cupping his sac with one hand and echoing the movement of her mouth with the other on his shaft. He groaned with every tug. Reaching for her breasts, he rasped, “I can’t wait. Straddle me.”
She lowered her slick womanhood onto his throbbing phallus, the sensation of deep penetration sending a wave of well-being coursing from his toes to the top of his head.
“You’re already wet, my lovely. I can’t thrust. You’ll have to do the work.” He grasped her hips. “Oui, that’s it. I can feel you gripping me. Ride me hard, ma belle.”
Her nostrils flared, her strong thighs braced tightly against his hips as she rode, back arched, hands threaded into her golden hair, breasts thrust forward proudly. She looked like a wild woman. Glancing to where their bodies were joined seemed to inflame her more—the golden and black curls intertwined. She stared into his eyes and he stared back. She smiled at him, and he returned the smile. They crested and peaked together, never turning their gaze as fulfillment clouded their vision.
Mabelle was careful not to collapse on top of him. Rising from the bed, she went to the ewer and poured water on a linen cloth. “Now I’ll cleanse you in the loving way you’ve always cleansed me.”
Loving? Of course I love her but could I bear it if she doesn’t love me in return?
She dried him with her hair, and kissed his sated manhood.
“Cursed horse,” he moaned, touching his bound ribs gingerly.
“Didn’t you enjoy that?” she teased.
“Oui, of course, but these ribs are not healing fast enough. I can’t wait to be riding again.”
Yawning, she curled into him as sleep claimed them.
Ram was a healthy, robust and active man, and it didn’t take him long to heal. He was happy to play with his sons when they were brought from the nursery.
“I want to get back on a horse, but if Fortis is still acting wildly, I’ll have to find another mount,” he told Mabelle sadly. “Much as I appreciate a steed with spirit, I also need a horse I can rely on when I ride against the Welsh. It will be hard to replace Fortis.”
He was pleasantly surprised, however, when the horse was demonstrably glad to see him, and he mounted easily, only a twinge pricking his abdomen. He rode out to the town market with his men-at-arms.
“So, you’ve recovered from whatever upset you that day, mon vieux?” he said lovingly, patting the horse’s neck, still puzzled by the uncharacteristic behavior.
On his return, he mentioned it to Gervais, who sho
wed Ram the small scar of a deep wound on the horse’s flank that he had discovered, under the saddle, as if something sharp had been pressed into its flesh. “See. There. I didn’t notice it at the time.”
Ram examined the mark closely. “Perhaps there was something stuck to the underside of the saddle?”
Gervais shrugged. “Not that I could see, but I wasn’t the first to handle Fortis after the accident.”
Conspirators
Ellesmere Castle and its environs grew as buildings and defenses were completed. With prosperity and expansion came more people, and a need for more skilled healers. Myfanwy saw an opportunity to at once acquire more assistance and provide a means for Rhonwen to come to the castle. Her daughter was growing into womanhood. Myfanwy wanted her near, under her protection.
She judged it wiser to suggest two girls as apprentices. She had heard Morwenna verch Morgan dabbled in healing and asked Rhonwen about the girl.
Her daughter shrugged. “I don’t know her. She lives on the other side of the village. People claim to have been healed by her potions.”
Myfanwy visited the girl in her cottage and was impressed with her beauty and her friendly smile. Morwenna told her she would be interested in living in the castle as an apprentice healer, but would have to ask permission of her father.
Myfanwy went to the earl. “I need more help, Arglwydd Montbryce. Your wife and her maidservant do what they can to help me. I want to bring two girls under my wing, apprentices from nearby villages. I’m not getting any younger. If something happens to me, you’ll need others to tend the wounds of your men, and nurse the illnesses of your people.”
She hoped her wrinkled skin would convince him.
The earl looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Who are these young women?”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 19
