“I’ll tell Gervais to have someone keep an eye on her.”
Two hours later his lieutenant reported Morwenna had fled the castle. The alarm was raised and the town thoroughly searched, but she couldn’t be found.
“Perhaps she was murdered too, for her part in the plot,” Ram suggested.
“Non, my husband. I think Myfanwy was a victim of this crime. I sense it was Morwenna who poisoned me. What do we know of her? Until recently she still lived in Wales. Myfanwy knew only of her family. Perhaps we were blinded by the beautiful smile and braided golden hair.”
“Ah,” her husband replied with a wink, squeezing her leg. “It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened to me.”
As a familiar ache assailed her loins, Mabelle silently thanked God the poison had not destroyed her ability to feel passion for this handsome man she loved so dearly.
Rhonwen searched high and low for her mother, filled with dreadful certainty that something terrible had happened. When Myfanwy’s body floated to the surface of a nearby lake two days later, her throat cut, Rhonwen was devastated, but not surprised. She and Morwenna were tending the countess and overheard Gervais when he brought the news to his earl. Rhonwen clenched her fists and shook her head, praying the tears wouldn’t flow. Trembling from head to toe, she couldn’t look at Morwenna, a terrible foreboding rising in her throat.
As the conversation continued, the other girl slipped out of the chamber. Dread constricted Rhonwen’s throat. She sensed the earl’s unease. Something did not sit well with him. Normans were known for their ingrained sense of form and order. Was he of the same mind she was?
The countess held out her hand. “I have a feeling it’s you, Rhonwen, who’ll prove in time to be the better healer.”
Rhonwen wanted to weep in her lady’s arms. Her value had been recognised, but she had never felt so alone. She hoped her lady couldn’t feel her trembling.
Face on fire, she bowed her way out of the room, emotion warring within her. The Montbryces recognized Myfanwy was innocent, but now Rhonwen was alone. Her mother was dead, and the killer gone, for she had no doubt Morwenna had played a role in her mother’s murder.
Myfanwy’s death was declared to be murder by persons unknown, and she was buried with dignity and solemnity in hallowed ground. Mabelle grieved for the Welsh healer, and knew in her heart the woman had not been involved in the plot to kill her. Whoever was responsible remained at large, probably with Morwenna. Rhonwen seemed inconsolable over the death of the crotchety old woman. She was probably the closest thing to a mother the girl had ever had.
Attending the funeral exhausted Mabelle, and Rhonwen helped her back to bed. “I learned much from her, my lady,” she said haltingly. “Who’ll teach me now? Who’ll protect me?”
It was an odd choice of words, but Mabelle replied, “You have great inner abilities to heal people, a natural touch which will stand you in good stead, and never fear, we’ll seek others to help us learn more. I’ll protect you.”
Ram suspected Rhodri was involved in the plots against his family. He and his well-trained trackers tried many times to follow his trail into the mountains but always returned empty-handed. He couldn’t understand these stubborn Welsh folk, with their strange Celtic beliefs, and their incomprehensible language. He grudgingly admitted they had difficult geography to deal with and admired the way they used the impossible terrain to their advantage.
However, he had a personal desire to see Rhodri captured after the humiliating incident at Ruyton, and was determined to put a stop to his interference in the future prosperity of England, and William’s plans to expand his control into Wales.
He assumed Rhodri had spies in his own castle. Morwenna had been one. He didn’t like to consider that any of the educated Normans under his command would ally themselves with a barbaric Welshman.
From time to time, Morwenna came to Cadair Berwyn when the weather permitted, or to Llys Powwydd. She was flirtatious, but Rhodri insisted they wait until their marriage before they lay together. He sometimes wondered what ailed him. Here was a gift being offered freely, yet he could not take it. Something held him back.
What was she doing when she was not with him? She had told him of an accomplice she had stumbled upon—a Norman soldier who seemed eager to do away with the Montbryces. It should have been good news, yet he was uneasy. Why would a Norman betray a fellow Norman to a Welshwoman and her rebel cohorts?
The two had already plotted and failed in their attempts to kill Montbryce. His gut tightened when Morwenna casually told him of the slain Welsh healer. She was on his lap in the chair by the hearth, fingering the fine amber beads he always wore. He wished she wouldn’t touch them. His long dead mother would not have approved of Morwenna.
She twisted the tight braid at the side of his face. “I want to do my hair this way,” she murmured. “I’m tired of one big braid.” As she spoke she flicked the end of her plait provocatively in his face.
Despite his best efforts, interest stirred in his groin and her smile told him she was aware of it. She squirmed in his lap, licking her lips. “I wish I had an amber necklace,” she pouted.
His manhood lost interest, and he stood abruptly, his hand under her elbow. She was angry as she struggled to keep her balance. “What’s wrong with you, Rhodri ap Owain? I’m spying for you, taking the risks, but you won’t even give me a necklace.”
Watching her storm out, Rhodri exhaled and put his hands on his hips, leaning forward to ease the cramping in his gut. Murdering women and unborn children. That was not the way he fought.
Normandie
In the late spring, Ram and Mabelle visited Normandie. He had made the journey many times in the nine years since the invasion. The defense of the castle merited constant attention given the volatile political climate in Normandie. His brothers were not far away in their own castles, but Ram had trained an elite garrison under the command of Capitaine Laurent Deschamps, a trusted comrade with whom he had fought. He was never disappointed in Laurent’s preparations and felt Montbryce was secure. It would be years before Robert was old enough to take up his birthright.
On this visit, Ram and Mabelle took their sons with them. He had long felt it was important they visit the castle at Saint Germain. They were the sons of a Norman comte, and it was imperative they be familiar with their ancestral home. Despite the unseasonably fine weather, it took them a sennight to reach the coast. The crossing was calm and even Ram managed not to become seasick. Robert and Baudoin enjoyed the voyage, excited to be going to Normandie.
As their cavalcade rode into the bailey of the home where he had been born, Ram was hard pressed to hold back his emotion. This edifice held many memories and so much history.
“How can I impart that to our children?” he asked Mabelle. “I hope this will be the first of many visits for them. One day Robert will be the comte here. Perhaps in time the Welsh problem will be solved, our king will no longer need my services in England, and we’ll return to Normandie for good.”
Mabelle sighed. “Oui, Ram, I would like that too. You have wealth and power, but it has been gained at a price.”
Ram looked at her wistfully. “The way we Normans constantly insist on alienating people with our brutality, the less likely it seems there will ever be peace.”
He took his children to show them the fields and orchards around the castle. Fernand Bonhomme, looking old and stooped, found a malleable horse so he could ride with Baudoin on his lap, Robert behind him, holding on to his papa, squealing with delight. Everyone was happy to see their liege lord returned, and commented on the handsomeness of his children. It was the first time they had ever spent time as a family with no external pressures.
“This is a place of intense memories for me,” Mabelle confided to her husband. “I recall the dark handsome knight, conjured from the lake, who became my husband, a man who has brought me the most exquisite pleasures.” The smile left her face. “But there are more difficult memories of
my father and yours.”
He noticed she made no mention of the wedding day incident, so he decided not to either.
They took the boys to the crypt, but it was evident the shivering lads were uncomfortable as they stared up at the long shadows cast by the flickering candles on the vaulted ceiling.
Mabelle picked bluebells with the children while Ram watched, and they exchanged smiles at the memory. The blue flowers held no interest for the boys, who preferred to chase each other through the fields, laughing and shouting. They took them swimming in their special lake, and Ram knew his eyes betrayed his need as they looked at each other close by the place he had first found her. The bittersweet memory washed over him like a rushing river. Trying to break the tension, he remarked casually to his sons, “Maman once threw papa’s sword into this lake.”
“Why, Maman?” Robert asked curiously. “You must have been very angry with him.”
“Oh, oui, mon fils, I was angry,” she replied, grinning at her smiling husband.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t stay angry at him, Maman,” Robert said innocently.
Their contentment at being back in the land of their birth carried over into their bed chamber, and they made sweet love every night as their bodies joined with flow and grace. Ram loved fondling and caressing Mabelle’s breasts. After the birth of two children, they were fuller and more sensitive and suckling them always enthralled her. The swell of her responsive bud at the slightest tender touch of his fingers exhilarated him and he never tired of feeling her inner textures. He loved to hear her call out his name in the throes of passion and wondered if she did indeed love him. She had never told him she did.
“Would you like to go for a picnic in the meadow?” he asked innocently one day. “You could pick bluebells. Fernand can look to the children for a while.”
Mabelle eyed him curiously, and he struggled to keep his feigned composure.
“It is a beautiful day,” she agreed. “And I do love bluebells. I’ll get La Cuisinière to prepare a hamper.”
She scurried off to the kitchens, leaving him to wonder if she had guessed his plan to get her to the enchanted pool. He wanted to erase any bitter memories they both may be harboring. Why did he care? Did he need her to love him? Were the physical pleasures not enough?
She came barefoot into the Great Hall, carrying the picnic basket and a blanket, and he was pleased she had changed into a simple chemise and belted sage green overdress.
“Will you be taking your sword to the meadow, milord comte?”
He laughed, taking the hamper and blanket. “I think not, saucy wench.”
They strolled out of the castle, their bodyguards following at a discreet distance. He ordered the men-at-arms to halt outside the walls. They would keep watch from where he stationed them, and he deemed it safe enough.
When they reached the meadow, he spread the blanket, and lay on his side, his head resting on one hand. He felt comfortable in his linen shirt and loose fitting knee breeches, especially once he took off his boots.
His gaze followed Mabelle. She hummed, gathering the blue flowers to her breast.
She was doing this the morning I found her.
He cared too much for this woman. He suspected Mabelle would never forgive him completely for his accusations and suspicions, though he intended to try to erase that memory today. But could he let go of his pride, his fear of rejection? He came lazily to his feet, wandered over and took hold of her hand as she bent to pick another flower. The grass felt good beneath his bare feet.
“Would you like to take a swim, milady?” he drawled seductively.
Her grasp on the bluebells tightened, but when he kissed her, the flowers fell to the ground. “Gather them up and bring them to the lake.”
He led her to the water’s edge, out of sight of their bodyguards, took the flowers, then undressed her, brushing his hands against her breasts as he lifted the clothing from her body. He disrobed quickly, smiling at her naked beauty. As he led her into the shallow water, she reached out tentatively and grasped his erection in her long fingers. Even the cold water couldn’t dampen his arousal as she slowly moved her hand on his phallus.
“I’m not a good swimmer, Ram,” she teased. “I need to hold on to something.”
He took her hand from his swollen manhood and lifted her. “You have other talents and skills which are far more important. I fear I may release too soon if you continue that,” he teased.
She entwined her legs around his hips, locking her ankles behind him. He walked over to the shallows, where a smooth moss-covered rock met the water’s edge. The friction of her wet female cleft against his shaft sent ripples of sensation up his spine. Leaning her back against the rock, he feathered kisses on her throat, neck and nipples.
She groaned with pleasure and swirled her tongue around the rim of his ear. “The moss feels like velvet against my back,” she crooned.
His need had become intense. “Mabelle, I have to come now.”
He thrust inside and her sheath clenched him tightly in response. Her legs gripped his torso, trying to draw him deeper as he pressed her body against the rock. She clung to him, keening her pleasure, her breasts rubbing against his chest.
In his passionate haze, he caught a glimpse of speckled trout flashing by in the knee-deep water. He curled his toes into the mud. She raked his scalp with her long fingers, and cried out his name as his seed erupted into her and a powerful spasm tore through her body.
She lowered her head to his shoulder and her hair enfolded them like a golden cloak. Staying inside her as long as he could, he carefully made his way to the deeper water, eased on to his back and floated for a while, with her on top of him, moving them effortlessly through the water with one arm, both of them completely relaxed.
“You’re as light as a feather,” he murmured into her ear.
She’s purring.
He guided them back to the shallows and carried her to the grass, where he knelt to lay her down and spread out her hair. With great care, he took the bluebells and placed them reverently on her body. He posed her legs as he remembered them from that bittersweet day, as awestruck by the sight as he had been then.
“On the day of our intended wedding,” he managed to say hoarsely, “I thought you were a vision. Your beauty struck me senseless, and you’re more breathtaking today. What happened that day embittered us both, but if you’ll allow me to continue to pleasure you today, milady, we can perhaps atone for our mistakes? I hope whatever you were dreaming of that day will come true for you.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “It has already come true, Ram. I was dreaming of being kissed by you, my husband.”
Antoine was right. I’m an idiot.
The day of their departure, Mabelle awoke shortly after dawn, dressed and went to break her fast. Ram had risen before her, and she couldn’t find him anywhere. She decided to make a last private visit to the crypt. A strangled cry escaped her as she entered the shadowy chamber. Ram knelt before the tombs of his parents. A tiny posy of bluebells lay atop each. She sank to her knees beside him and took his hand. They clung to each other.
“Swear to me, Mabelle, that if I die in England, you’ll return here with my body, so that I may be laid to rest with my parents. I belong in Normandie.”
“I so swear,” she whispered, stricken by the notion of life without him.
Plans Laid
Thanks to Ram’s well tried and proven methods of governance, the towns and villages around Ellesmere grew and prospered. September brought with it the affirmation of another child firmly planted in Mabelle’s belly. She and Ram were thankful the abortifacient seemed to have done no permanent damage. It had been a year since she had been poisoned. The resilience of her body surprised her, considering the difficult life she had led before she met Ram.
The long summer had been particularly hot, relieved only by gentle rainfall in the early evenings. She often felt uncomfortable and was nauseous every morning. But
the weather produced a bumper harvest and there was much celebrating at the autumn fayres held in the towns and villages. No one would starve this winter.
Rhonwen continued to show great promise, but they heard tell of another renowned healer in the village of Whittington, which had not yet held its fayre. Mabelle received Ram’s permission to take Rhonwen with her to the Whittington Fayre so they could seek out the healer. The young woman was gleeful at the prospect.
“Perhaps we’ll convince her to return with us to Ellesmere, my lady?” she enthused.
Mabelle rubbed her hands together. “Perhaps we will. But if not, we’ll try to learn as much from her as we can about the things we don’t yet understand.”
As planning for the excursion progressed, it occurred to Mabelle how wonderful it would be for her sons to accompany them to Whittington.
“They enjoyed the fayre at Ellesmere,” she argued, when Ram was less than enthusiastic. “They have few chances to be little boys. Please let me take them. Giselle can accompany us and keep them busy while we’re with the healer.”
Ram relented, insisting they be protected by a company of ten men-at-arms as their escort, but he was uneasy that he couldn’t go with his family. He wasn’t interested in what they would be discussing with the healer but might enjoy the fayre with his wife and children. “We have too few opportunities to be together and enjoy life, as we did during our visit to Normandie.”
“Don’t be concerned,” Mabelle laughed. “Your men will take good care of us. We’ll be surrounded by people at the fayre and it will be perfectly safe. The Welsh won’t encroach as close as Whittington. In any case, the beginning of October is too late in the season for them to leave their mountains.”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 21
