Ram put his hands on her waist and leaned his forehead against hers. “You’re right, but I still don’t like the idea of my pregnant wife and my children leaving without me.”
Since her flight from Ellesmere, Morwenna had not been able to return. Phillippe was relieved. He did not want to be seen with her anywhere near the castle. They held their trysts in an abandoned hunting lodge on her father’s lands, not far from Oswestry.
Their joining was rough and both liked it that way, tearing off their clothes as soon as they arrived. The plotting began the moment the coupling was over.
Phillippe had thought long and hard on how to take revenge on the Montbryces. It had been a year since the failed poisoning. But now Fortune had smiled on him. He had learned the countess and her children would be going to the autumn fayre in Whittington. What better opportunity for a kidnapping?
“Kidnapping?” Morwenna exclaimed. “We would need Rhodri’s help with such a plot.”
Phillippe smiled inwardly, confident she would talk herself into the scheme. “Would it not benefit his cause to obtain a large amount of money?”
She snorted. “He doesn’t care for money. He’s a patriot.”
Is she truly so dim?
“But he recognizes the importance of money to buy food and arms.”
Understanding dawned on her face. “But would the earl pay a ransom?”
Now for the coup de grâce.
“That’s the beauty of the plan. If he doesn’t, we’ll kill his family. If he does, he will fall out of favor with his beloved king for giving money to rebels. And he won’t know we plan to kill them anyway.”
His shaft surged with renewed interest. She grasped him, putting her mouth on his arousal. “I like the way you think, Phillippe. I’ll convince Rhodri. When is the fayre?”
Rhodri was distracted while Morwenna explained the plan to kidnap the earl’s family. She had not made any attempt to touch him though they were alone in his solar. What was her relationship with the Norman accomplice? She was a woman who craved men.
He forced his thoughts back to the plot she had suggested. It had merit. His people definitely needed coin. Food was in short supply, despite record harvests on the English side of the Marches after a glorious summer. The utter injustice of it rankled. Why not extort the money from a Norman?
He had the manpower. It could be done, and quickly. Time would be of the essence if they were to take the Montbryce family in October and have them ransomed before winter set in. They could sequester the hostages at Cadair Berwyn. The earl would never venture so far into Wales in search of his family.
He summoned his most trusted advisors. His father had relied on the good counsel of Aneurin ap Norweg and Andras ap Rhys. He would too. They listened intently.
“They’ll have servants with them,” Aneurin advised.
“We’ll kill them,” Morwenna replied.
Rhodri held up his hand. “There will be no unnecessary killing. If the earl believes we intend to murder his family anyway, he won’t pay.”
Morwenna was indignant. “What of the men-at-arms who will escort them? Shall we spare them too?” she asked sarcastically.
Rhodri nodded. “We will accomplish this with cunning, not brutality.”
Aneurin and Andras nodded, both voicing their agreement. The decision was made. They would kidnap Mabelle de Montbryce and her two children from the Whittington Fayre.
“What ransom should we demand?” Rhodri asked.
Morwenna did not hesitate. “Two thousand pounds, preferably in Fleury pennies.”
The men looked at her in shock. “Where would he put his hand on that kind of coin?” Aneurin asked, more than a hint of ridicule in his voice.
Morwenna smirked. “It’s only one year’s income from all his properties.”
Silence reigned in the room. Rhodri tried and failed to comprehend how so much wealth could exist. “How do you know this?”
“The Norman told me.”
She flounced out abruptly with a gleam in her eye.
Rhodri and his men set about making the final plans.
Abduction
As soon as Mabelle met Caryl Penarth she thought the woman embodied the meaning of her name, which Rhonwen explained was the Welsh for love. Caryl willingly shared her knowledge of the healing arts with the two women and agreed to consider coming to Ellesmere, at least for a few months, to instruct the local women, as well as Rhonwen.
When they were not with Caryl they enjoyed the minstrels, theatre, jugglers, magicians, and human chess games. They laughed at the bright costumes of folk dressed as King Arthur, mermaids, and the fayre’s king and queen. Mabelle had not seen her sons laugh as much since the journey to Normandie. They tended to be serious little boys.
Everyone enjoyed the fruits of the bountiful harvest, and the ale and wine flowed freely. The women and children were never without their armed escort, and Mabelle enjoyed herself immensely. After three days they mounted their horses a little after midday for the slow ride back to Ellesmere. Caryl promised to come to the castle in a sennight.
They had traveled only a short distance when they entered a copse. Rhonwen commented on the beauty of the autumn leaves. Without warning, masked men clad in sheepskins and leather breeches dropped like stones from the trees. The Norman soldiers were quickly disarmed and dragged from their mounts. Mabelle could do nothing. The furtive attackers seized the reins of their horses and led them deeper into the wood.
Mabelle lost sight of Robert.
“Maman, Maman,” her son shouted.
“I’m safe, mon fils, don’t worry. I’m here. Look to your brother,” she called in reply, trying to sound braver than she felt.
None of the men made any move to harm them, and she considered that a good sign. It didn’t seem they would be murdered at least.
Other brigands were concealed deep in the forest, with horses at the ready. The attackers mounted. One took Robert on his lap and another took Baudoin. Stealthily, the caravan made its way deeper into the woods. The men spoke to each other in a language foreign to her, but the terrified Rhonwen seemed to understand and Mabelle surmised it was Welsh.
Neither of her sons had cried since they were taken, but she constantly called words of reassurance to them, hoping her voice didn’t betray her fear. “Don’t be afraid, mes enfants, I’m here, as are Giselle and Rhonwen. We’ll be safe. Don’t worry.”
It broke her heart to remember her children’s joy at riding on their father’s lap.
They rode at a steady pace for about an hour. Mabelle was relieved they had not travelled at a gallop. Perhaps the child she carried might survive this ordeal—if she did. She had a sense they were traveling west, probably into Wales. When she saw the village of Oswestry in the distance to her left, her suspicions were confirmed. Trying to occupy her mind and divert it from the sheer terror threatening to engulf her, she wondered how the bandits had known the Montbryce family would be at Whittington. This had not been a random act. She and her family had been targeted. The traitor within was still at work.
Other than comforting words spoken to the children, the three women said nothing, exchanging only glances whenever the track caused their horses to be close to each other. A bandit held the reins and they had no chance to control their own mounts. Escape was impossible.
Though there was no marker, Mabelle could tell an hour later that they had crossed into Wales when they reached the village of Rhydycroesau. Their captors became more relaxed. The scowling faces of the villagers told Mabelle all hope was lost. There would be no rescue. Ram would never see his family again. She prayed her husband would discover the identity of the traitor and cut out his heart.
After another hour in the saddle, Mabelle’s body ached. She asked their captors several times if they might be allowed to dismount for a few moments for the sake of the children, but was ignored. Did the men speak her language? They reined in the horses at a cottage on the western edge of a tiny village.
/> “You’ll sleep here tonight,” one of the bearded men said gruffly in Norman French, holding out his burly arms to help her dismount.
She didn’t want to accept his aid, but would otherwise have fallen flat on her face. When her numbed feet hit the ground her legs gave way, and she had to lean on the horse. The man didn’t take his hand from her elbow as she waited for the feeling to return to her limbs.
When he grew impatient, Rhonwen spoke to him in Welsh. She assumed the girl had told him her mistress was pregnant. He seemed surprised and allowed her more time to regain her equilibrium.
Once they were inside, the man bolted the door of the cottage, imprisoning his captives, and her sons ran quickly to their mother. Neither boy had cried throughout the ordeal and she told them how proud she was of their courage.
Baudoin struggled to control his fear. “Will Papa come to rescue us, Maman?”
“I’m sure he is already in pursuit, mon petit.”
Judging by the worried frowns of Giselle and Rhonwen, they didn’t share her optimism.
Bread and cheese and ale had been provided for them. The cottage was cramped but clean. It afforded a chance to sleep indoors and take care of their personal needs. With the limited means at her disposal Giselle did her best to tend her lady. Rhonwen massaged Mabelle’s back and applied to her feet a salve Caryl had given her. Mabelle prayed the child within her still lived.
She slept fitfully on a pallet, which was furnished with surprisingly clean linens; her sons cuddled into her. Giselle and Rhonwen clung to each other on the second pallet.
At dawn the following day, a loud banging on the door signaled departure. The leader entered with bread and honey. Fear made her choke on the food, but she was determined to eat, to keep up her strength. She encouraged the children to eat.
She leaned over to Rhonwen. “Do you know where we are?”
Rhonwen glanced around furtively, then whispered. “My lady, I think this village is Llansilin. I believe they’re taking us to the mountains.”
Fear crept up Mabelle’s spine. Their suspicions were confirmed when they left the cottage. Their horses had been replaced by sure-footed Welsh mountain ponies. She smiled when Robert seemed to forget the terrible trouble they were in and exclaimed with excitement, “Look, Maman. Ponies.”
“Trussed up?” Ram shouted. “Ten of my finest men-at-arms? Knocked out and trussed up like piglets for the spit? How can this be?”
He raked his fingers through his hair, scratching his head, completely distraught over the desperate news from Whittington.
“Milord Earl, it appears they were ambushed,” Gervais replied.
Ram snorted. “Of course they were ambushed. They’re Norman soldiers, supposedly prepared for ambush.”
Gervais hesitated. “Perhaps they had enjoyed the delights of the fayre a little too much, milord—the ale—”
Ram stared coldly at his lieutenant. His voice dripped ice as he replied, “Then I’ll execute them myself. I entrusted my family to them and they failed me.”
Gervais remained silent.
Ram could stand the silence no longer. “You believe they’re already dead, don’t you?”
Again Gervais kept silent. The minutes dragged as Ram paced.
“Summon my commanders to the Map Room. We’ll pursue them.”
Gervais threw up his hands. “But, milord, we don’t know where they’ve gone.”
“They’ve gone into Wales,” Ram shouted, knowing only too well who had taken his family.
“But, milord, winter comes early to the mountains of Wales. We could easily lose our way and become trapped. The local people won’t help us.”
Ram pounded his fist into his palm. “I told you to summon my commanders. We’ll follow them into Wales.”
Gervais’ shoulders sagged. “Oui, milord.”
At least with the ponies the women were able to ride astride and hold the reins themselves. However, the track had become a narrow, twisting path. They rode single file, with some of the men in the lead and the others behind them. Flight was impossible.
Robert and Baudoin were now on a first name basis with the ponies they shared with their captors, and Mabelle was grateful they were distracted from their fear.
The path rose steadily for the next three hours. The scenery became wilder, the terrain more rugged. They entered a remote village. The men called out to each other, confirming the direction to take. Mabelle looked to Rhonwen who told her they were in Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant.
She didn’t know why she asked. She would never remember these tortuous names, and what did it matter anyway? Who could she tell?
“In your best estimate, Gervais, where do you think they’ve been taken?” Ram asked impatiently as he and his commanders pored over the latest charts they had of the area, not knowing if they were accurate or not.
Gervais traced his finger along the chart. “They may have taken the route through Oswestry, and crossed into Wales at Rhydycroesau. After that, it’s more difficult to say. If Rhodri is behind this, we don’t know where his camp is. They may have gone north west to Llanarmon, or south west to Llansilin. Or he may have taken them to Powwydd Castle.”
Ram followed his lieutenant’s finger. “Rhodri is behind this. Of that I have no doubt. But what does he plan next?”
Phillippe de Giroux stepped forward. “Milord, if he planned to murder them, why have we found no bodies? Why take them into Wales? Perhaps he has ransom in mind.”
Gervais spoke again, looking directly at Ram. “Milord, I’m as anxious as you are to rescue my countess and your family, but you must see it’s futile to ride into Wales. We could search for sennights and not find them. You know yourself how difficult the terrain is, not to mention the weather that will soon turn against us, if it hasn’t already.”
Gervais was right, but his heart was broken. He dismissed the other men with a curt, “Leave us.”
He slumped into a chair. “You’re correct, Gervais, but I can’t sit and do nothing.”
“You have no choice, milord. But it may not be long before they send a message. I think Giroux is right and they’ll demand ransom. However, they too know winter is setting in and won’t want to wait until spring.”
It was getting colder. They had left Llanrhaeadr far behind at least an hour before, and were still climbing. The Normans had dressed for the warm autumn weather in Whittington and the children were shivering. The brigands had provided blankets at the cottage, but Mabelle’s fingers and toes were freezing. Giselle and Rhonwen rubbed their hands together frequently, trying all the while to keep the ponies on the narrow track.
She became aware of the sound of rushing water. Judging by the roar, it must be a high waterfall. Suddenly they came upon a cascade which fell about two hundred and fifty feet through a stunning arched rock formation. The raging torrent was thunderous. Some of the water had formed ice crystals at the edges. The men called a halt as everyone gazed at this natural wonder. One of them took the opportunity to give each captive another hand woven brychan.
“Pistyll-Rhaeadr,” Rhonwen yelled to her fellow captives. “Myfanwy told me of this. It’s the most beautiful waterfall in all Wales.”
They headed into the woods. This path led into a wide valley. After a few hundred feet they were down in the valley floor, and then they turned onto a track going in the opposite direction up the hill on the other side.
They made their way on a trail that wound up from the valley floor. Once the tortuous path reached the head of the valley, the men turned in their saddles. Mabelle followed their gaze and the incredible vista took her breath away.
Even barbarians appreciate a beautiful view. I’m beginning to understand why the Welsh are passionate for their wild land.
The path forded then followed a stream, and soon they came across a sight which made the first stunning vista pale in comparison. There was a lake far below them in a deep crater, backed by craggy mountains and ridges. Mabelle hoped the faraway vista was not
where they were going. She had never seen a lake of the same color as the one below them, as blue as the bleu de France favored by the heralds of the French king.
The leader signaled another halt, and the captives were allowed to dismount. They sat together on rocks in a clearing. One of the men gave them bread and cheese to eat and ale to drink.
“Ask them where they’re taking us, Rhonwen,” Mabelle urged, though she was hesitant to put the girl in danger.
Rhonwen received only a grunt and a disdainful look in reply.
The climb for the next two hours was strenuous. They came to the top of a crag and had to hug the side of the mountain. It was the strong hind legs of the ponies that saw them through. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths.
Once they had crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and Mabelle was astounded to see a wooden fortress loom out of the mist, built into the side of the mountain. Some of the roofs of the buildings seemed to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. Though she couldn’t see the rear of the fortification, she was sure it was perched on the edge of a deep ravine. Any army wanting to attack would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable. This was probably the reason for the evident lack of armed men on the high balustrades. They had reached their destination and her heart plummeted. She surveyed the magnificent scenery of high mountains on every side.
It’s a beautiful place to die.
Cadair Berwyn
Darkness fell as the captives were led through the gates of the forbidding fortress. The towering palisades, made of stout trees lashed together, were as tall as two men. Once inside, they were led to a chamber. Mabelle had learned the leader’s name was Andras. He lit several candles with speedy efficiency, and she gradually discerned that the room was clean, if spartan.
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 22
