“Rhonwen from Ellesmere and Morwenna, a girl from a noble family, known for her healing skills.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
As Phillippe de Giroux suckled hard on her nipples, grazing them with his teeth, Morwenna gloated. “It’s falling into place, my Norman stallion. That foolish old woman was so impressed with my skills, she couldn’t wait to rush off to recommend me to the earl.”
She ran her hands over his close cropped hair. “I love to feel the prickly stubble. Why do you Normans shave your heads?”
Phillippe took a breath and leered up at her. “It’s cooler under a helmet. But I have another head you should be more interested in.”
She looked down at his swollen manhood and smiled slyly. “Mmmm. I see what you mean.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down on the bed. “Tell me again of your castle in Normandie while I pleasure you.”
She gripped his shaft and took him into her mouth, moving up and down on him roughly, sucking hard. He groaned and put his hands on her head, twisting his fingers in her hair.
Remembering his homeland brought back the horrendous memories of his childhood at the mercy of his father whose madness had turned him into a sadistic monster. Phillippe prayed for the day when his father would die and he would become the Comte de Giroux. He wept inwardly for his brothers. François and Georges were still subject to the depravities of their sire.
But if convincing this Welsh bitch to help him destroy the Montbryces in revenge meant recalling his home in Normandie, he would do it. She had told him she had ties to the Welsh rebels. His liaison with her would not be without its compensations. She had a talented mouth. The pressure in his groin was unbearable now. He clawed the bed linens.
“Giroux Castle is—Dieu!”
She twirled her tongue over the end of his phallus. “Tell me,” she commanded. “If I’m to be your countess, I want to know about my castle.”
He rose up quickly and shoved her back, pushing her legs wide open. He gripped his shaft and positioned it at her entry. “If you’re to be my comtesse, Morwenna, you’ll need to provide me with Montbryce’s head, and a hot, welcoming place for me to impale my lance.”
She smiled up at him and licked her lips. “You can count on me for both.”
Rhonwen was content with her chamber in the castle, though she would have preferred to share with her mother, rather than the other apprentice.
She did not know what opinion to form of Morwenna. The girl was certainly beautiful, but there was something dark about her. She treated Rhonwen with disdain and they never sat together for communal meals. Morwenna spent most of her time when not required in the castle off on what she called ‘adventures’. Judging by the company she kept in the hall, Rhonwen had the feeling these adventures involved persons of the male sort. She doubted if Morwenna was a maid.
She was torn as to whether she should mention her suspicions to her mother, but didn’t want to worry her. Perhaps it was jealousy making her feel the way she did? She feared the Montbryces liked Morwenna better than they liked her. Her high cheekbones and big eyes suggested a state of constant surprise, whereas Morwenna had a look of openness and honesty. Rhonwen was suspicious of what lay behind that beaming smile.
Morwenna’s blonde hair was always tightly braided, whereas Rhonwen preferred to let her black locks hang loose. Morwenna was more attractive to men. Was that why the earl seemed to favor her? Rhonwen cursed her own shyness. Whenever the countess spoke to her, she seemed incapable of replying without stammering. Morwenna was full of confidence. Rhonwen resolved to prove to the Montbryces she was a more than capable healer, for her mother’s sake.
Poison
The new healers had been at Ellesmere a fortnight when Ram looked across the hall one evening to the two girls who sat at separate benches. “The apprentices are complete opposites. Where Morwenna is fair of hair and face, Rhonwen is dark, moody, and, I must confess, hard to read.”
“Oui, Morwenna braids her long hair,” Mabelle replied, “whereas Rhonwen’s hangs around her shoulders like a black cape. Morwenna smiles a lot, and Rhonwen doesn’t.”
Ram took hold of his wife’s hand. “Don’t be angry, but I’ve noticed Morwenna has beautiful blue eyes with long blonde lashes, whereas Rhonwen’s are round grey pools.”
Mabelle feigned annoyance, wagging her finger and shaking her head, but then she smiled. “Have you noticed how Rhonwen’s high cheek bones accentuate her look of constant surprise?”
Ram chuckled. “Oui, and Rhonwen is small and delicate, whereas Morwenna—well, a man notices these things. You know, breasts, and hips that bespeak fertility.”
Now I might be in trouble.
He supposed Mabelle had decided not to rise to the bait when the smile returned to her face. “Both girls are quick studies, and Myfanwy is delighted with her pupils. I confess I like Morwenna, but I find Rhonwen uncommunicative and shy. However, I can’t fault the way the girl works when faced with a wound to cleanse, or a fever to tend. It sometimes seems people heal faster when Rhonwen takes care of them. She has a special touch. I can tell Myfanwy likes Rhonwen the best. She treats her like a daughter.”
Ram replied, “I’m pleased the castle now has three expert healers.”
Mabelle blushed. “Oui and the four of us are spending many hours replenishing the stock of herbs, and mixing fresh potions and salves.”
“Speaking of salves, I’m leaving for the border region on the morrow. Would you like to join me in our chamber and soothe my ache?”
One warm spring day, Mabelle and Myfanwy were gathering herbs together in the garden. The Welshwoman made an observation that they must be sure to replenish certain ones. Mabelle recognised them as herbs used in child birthing. She blushed, wondering if Myfanwy had guessed what she suspected. It would be useless to deny it to this perceptive Welshwoman, whom she had grown to love and trust.
“I believe you may be right, Myfanwy. I’m with child again, I think. I’ve missed my courses, and I’m nauseous every morning.”
Myfanwy cackled with glee. “Does Arglwydd Montbryce know?”
“Not yet, but I know he’ll be pleased. I plan to tell him on the morrow, when he returns from Wales.”
The healer put her wrinkled hand on Mabelle’s arm. “I can prepare something for the nausea, my lady, if you wish.”
“Merci, Myfanwy.”
Morwenna stole into the Still Room.
Myfanwy looked up from her work and smiled. “You’re here late, Morwenna.”
“Yes,” she replied. “I saw the light. I wondered who was working at this hour.”
Myfanwy was preparing a potion. “It’s a draught for the countess.”
There was a sparkle in the old woman’s eyes. What did it mean? Why would the countess need a draught at night? She was not known as a woman who needed help sleeping. The draught was for something else.
She is with child.
She moved closer to the old woman. “I can take it to her.”
Myfanwy shook her head. “No, I promised I would bring it.”
Morwenna took another step. “But it’s late, and the master’s chamber is on the other side of the castle.”
The healer clutched the goblet to her breast, shaking her head more vigorously as Morwenna held out her hand for it.
“Give it to me, old woman,” she spat.
Myfanwy’s eyes filled with alarm, but she held on to the goblet. Morwenna took out her blade. Myfanwy’s mouth fell open and she backed away, edging towards the door. She hadn’t seen Phillippe de Giroux lurking there, dagger drawn. Without a sound, he stole up behind the healer, grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head back and stroked his weapon across her throat. The scream died on her lips as blood gushed everywhere. Morwenna rescued the goblet before it slipped from the dying woman’s grasp. Phillippe shoved the body to the floor, inspecting his tunic for blood.
Morwenna hastened to the bench and infused the potion with myrrh and
coriander. “The countess is pregnant,” she explained breathlessly to Phillippe, who was wiping his dagger on Myfanwy’s tabard.
He snickered. “I suspected. Another Montbryce whelp.”
She walked over to him with the lethal cup. “Not if I’m successful. I’ll take this potion to her. If she drinks it, we’ll have one less Montbryce to worry about. You’ll have to devise a means to get rid of the body and this pool of blood. Couldn’t you have simply strangled her? We don’t want Rhonwen raising the alarm.”
Phillippe was already dragging his victim to the door. He scowled at her. “It won’t be a problem.”
Morwenna retrieved a wooden tray, placed the goblet on it and went off to the countess’s chamber. The earl was away, so it was likely only the maidservant would be with her mistress.
She tapped on the door and entered, smiling broadly.
That evening, as she sat in her lonely chamber, looking forward to Ram’s return the next day, Mabelle heard a soft tap at the door. Morwenna entered carrying a wooden tray with a goblet, the usual bright smile upon her face. “My lady, Myfanwy has sent this special draught for nausea but says it must be taken before bed to be truly effective.”
Mabelle was surprised the Welsh healer had evidently shared news of her condition with the apprentice but decided not to make an issue of it. She thanked the girl, dismissed her and took a sip of the potion. It had a bitter taste, and she could only drink a little at a time. She might prefer the nausea to this gall. She called Giselle from the next chamber to assist her to undress.
“You’re no doubt looking forward to milord’s return on the morrow,” enthused the little Norman woman whom Mabelle now considered more a friend than a servant.
“Oui, I am. I love him dearly, and I miss him when he’s away.”
Giselle helped her lady lift the dress over her head. “So, you’ve come to see that what you feel for him is love?”
“Oui, for many years I didn’t think I could experience love. As you know, I spent my childhood growing up with a father who didn’t know the meaning of the word. And Ram and I—well—you’re aware of the difficulties we had at first. I thought I would never forgive him, but he’s the person I was meant to marry. He’s the other half of me.”
Giselle knelt to remove Mabelle’s shoes. “Have you told him you love him?”
“Non, I’ll probably never tell him. You know Ram. He’s a man of action, a soldier. Such men don’t allow themselves to fall in love. He’s a good husband and father, and he cares for me, and our passion is sometimes…overwhelming, but for a man that’s natural lust, and I wouldn’t want to tell him I love him and receive no words of love in return.”
Giselle smiled and patted Mabelle’s belly. “Milady, you’re mistaken. When he looks at you I see love in his eyes. When you tell him about the bébé on the morrow, why not tell him you love him?”
Now Mabelle smiled—even Giselle had guessed she was with child.
Suddenly the room tilted. Intense pain sliced through her abdomen, bending her double in agony—no time to reach the chamber pot before vomiting. She hugged herself, sweating, trying to still the shaking.
“Aide-moi. Something is wrong. Help me.”
Giselle ran to the door of the chamber, calling loudly for help. “Au secours! Au secours!”
Morwenna and Rhonwen were roused by a loud banging at their door, and summoned to the countess’s chamber.
The wide-eyed guard was breathless. “Where is Myfanwy Dda?” he demanded. “She’s not in her chamber.”
Rhonwen frowned, barely awake. Where else would her mother be at this time of night?
Morwenna shrugged.
Rhonwen averted her eyes and whispered, “I know not.”
“Go then, quickly,” he commanded. “I’ll continue to search.”
Rhonwen ran along the corridor, trying to keep up with Morwenna. “Mammie, mammie,” she chanted over and over, hoping the litany would calm her beating heart. They burst into the chamber and rushed to help Giselle get the countess off the floor, where she writhed in agony. She doubled over in the bed, held in pain’s thrall.
Giselle noticed the empty goblet on the tray. She seized it and inhaled. “Myrrh,” she whispered breathlessly.
She put her nose closer. “And coriander.”
“It’s a potion. Myfanwy made it,” Morwenna explained calmly.
Rhonwen’s heart raced, but she said nothing as she bathed her lady’s forehead with cold cloths.
“The Welsh witch has poisoned my lady,” Giselle cried.
“No, it can’t be true,” Rhonwen exclaimed, shaking her head.
By dawn, it was heartbreakingly apparent the countess had lost a child despite Rhonwen’s desperate efforts to save it, but she was hopeful she had staunched the bleeding and Mabelle de Montbryce would survive. For some unfathomable reason the Normans seemed to think her gentle mother had poisoned the countess. Giselle had sent Gervais off to arrest her.
Rhonwen withdrew into a corner of the chamber and crouched down, sobbing quietly, confused and fearful for her countess and her mother. She called on the powerful forces of good to come to their aid. Morwenna had curled up nearby and fallen asleep. Rhonwen pondered why the girl had felt it necessary to throw suspicion on Myfanwy.
When Ram arrived home several hours later, Bonhomme awaited him, and he could tell by the expression on the man’s face something was wrong. “My children?” he asked, as fear gripped him.
“Non, monseigneur. Ta femme, la comtesse—”
Ram’s knees turned to water and his heart raced. How could he face life without Mabelle? “Where is she?”
“She’s in your chamber, and the healers are with her. We’re seeking Myfanwy. The witch poisoned your wife.”
He didn’t later recall how he got to the chamber but was gasping for breath when he arrived. What he saw made his heart clench with anger. He would kill whoever had done this. The bile rose in his throat as he looked at the ravages the poison had wrought on the fair face of his beautiful wife. She looked like she had been dragged to hell.
He didn’t think he had uttered that thought aloud, and yet, as if sensing his presence in the room, Mabelle half-opened her eyes and murmured in a barely audible voice, “Ram, I was at the gates of hell. I wanted to spit in the Devil’s face, but my throat was too dry.”
He poured water from the ewer, then helped her sip the life sustaining liquid. She tried to speak. “Ram. Our baby. I’ve lost our baby.”
“Baby?” he murmured, his fury intensifying. He clutched his wife’s cold hands and brought them to his lips. The only sounds were Mabelle’s sobs and his own heavy breathing as he struggled to control his emotions. He became dimly aware the two Welsh girls, looking exhausted, were standing in the far corner of the room. What struck him as odd, in that fleeting moment, was that tears streamed down Rhonwen’s face, but Morwenna stood stonily expressionless.
Giselle entered and Ram ushered the women out into the hallway. “I thank you for taking care of her, for saving her life. What happened here? Where is Myfanwy, and why are my men hunting her?”
Giselle recounted the story, and Morwenna confirmed it was Myfanwy who had given her the draught and instructed her to take it to Mabelle. Wiping away tears with her sleeve, Rhonwen told Ram that his wife had miscarried a child and was still very ill.
Despair pressed at his temples. “She might yet die?”
Rhonwen averted her eyes. “The abortifacient she ingested was powerful, and it will take a long time for the poison to leave her body. We’ll need to watch her carefully. Also, Arglwydd Montbryce, I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak of these things, but sometimes when a woman loses a child, she loses the will to live, and my lady is already very weak.”
An icy chill raced across Ram’s nape.
This could kill her.
“Get some sleep now. I’ll watch her.”
He returned to his sleeping wife’s bedside, dropped to his knees, rested his elbows on th
e bed and prayed, weeping for her terrible pain and his own.
In Need Of Protection
The bloated body of Myfanwy Dda floated to the surface of a nearby lake two days later, her throat cut. Ram had left his wife’s side only to visit with their children in the nursery, and to bring them to see their mother as she slowly grew stronger. When Gervais whispered news of the discovery in his ear, he left Mabelle with the two healers and went to discuss this latest development.
“Her confederate evidently didn’t trust her to keep quiet,” Gervais suggested.
Ram shook his head. “But why would she try to poison my wife, and kill our child? Though she was Welsh, she’s lived in England peaceably for years. She had a position of honor and respect here as our healer. She’s saved the lives of hundreds of our people. I had complete trust in her.”
He returned to his wife’s bedside and told her the sad news. She shook her head. “I can’t believe Myfanwy would do this. What would she gain? Who would she conspire with, and why would they kill her?”
“Did she know you were with child?”
“Oui, she’d guessed as much and we talked of it in the herb garden. She told me she would prepare something for me to take, so I didn’t question when Morwenna brought me the potion.”
Ram rubbed his chin. “I do recall now that Morwenna brought it to you.”
He turned to ask Morwenna where Myfanwy had given her the potion, but the girl had slipped out of the room.
Strange.
It was stranger still that Morwenna’s hair was unbraided. Perhaps after a long and difficult two days, she had not had time to braid it this morning. With his Norman sense of order, he had a vague feeling something was not right, and it didn’t sit well with him.
“Morwenna doesn’t seem herself,” he remarked.
“You’re right. I hardly recognised her with her hair down. And the poor child has not smiled much today. I’m getting the feeling that of the two of them, it’s Rhonwen who’ll prove in time to be the better healer, and I wouldn’t have thought that before. While I lay in pain, I could feel Rhonwen’s compassion as she tended to my needs. It was mystical. I didn’t feel that from Morwenna. In fact, I felt malevolence emanating from her.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 20
