Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1)

by Anna Markland

  “We’re expected,” she whispered sarcastically to Giselle.

  Five palettes piled high with sheepskins and furs had been installed at one side of the room, and a chamber pot placed discreetly behind a screen, along with drying cloths, a basin and ewer full of water. An empty wooden bathtub stood propped against the wall. A roughly hewn table and six stools completed the furnishings. The comparative warmth of the room led her to believe none of the walls was an outer one. They were completely within the fortress.

  “My children are hungry, Andras,” she began, but he didn’t reply. He bolted the heavy door after leaving. She glanced at her children and then at Giselle and Rhonwen. The women understood the necessity to be careful what they said in front of the boys. It was a relief none of them had been violated. With the natural curiosity of children, her sons began exploring their new surroundings, and the women sat down to wait.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Andras reappeared and ushered them to follow. He led them along a dimly lit corridor, outside across a rocky pathway, then into a great hall full of light from scores of torches. Mabelle blinked rapidly. It was difficult to believe such a place could exist so high in these bleak mountains. It must have taken considerable skill and perseverance to build.

  The high, vaulted ceiling was supported by huge wooden crossbeams from which hung foreign-looking banners, wafting gently on the currents of air. The walls were covered with an haphazard collection of shields, weapons, furs and antlers. The air was hazy with smoke and heavy with the aroma of roasted game. At least a hundred dark-haired, swarthy men, bristling with daggers, lined the walls, standing erect. All were clad in sheepskin jerkins, leather breeches and boots. It was the devil’s army.

  At the front, on a dais, sat two massive wooden chairs, one slightly smaller than the other. Andras urged the Normans forward, until they were standing directly in front of the chairs.

  A large, muscular man lounged in the bigger chair, his long fingers caressing the dragons intricately carved into the arms. He wore breeches and boots but no shirt, and a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin open in the front. His face bore the trace of a smile. A blonde woman sat on the edge of the other chair, looking malevolently pleased.

  Giselle gasped. “Morwenna,” she whispered to her mistress.

  Mabelle couldn’t at first recognize the girl. Her once tightly-braided hair now flowed in a wild tangle down to her waist, softened only by two braids on either side of her face. The end of each braid was adorned with brightly colored beads, and she wore a narrow leather thong around her forehead. She too was clad in leather breeches and boots, and a sheepskin jerkin. The smile Mabelle had been used to seeing was now replaced by a look of malice and triumph. She made a move to rise and speak, but the big man stopped her with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.

  Mabelle knew without being told this man was Rhodri ap Owain. He had been a constant thorn in the side of the Marcher lords for a long time. Even before the invasion, his frequent sorties into the border counties of England from his stronghold in the Welsh mountains left a trail of fear and destruction in their wake. It was said he hated Saxon and Norman equally and burned with Celtic fervor for a Wales free of their domination.

  She contemplated him, the cold sweat of fear trickling down her spine. He embodied primitive masculinity and vitality, with eyes like green jade and the tanned, weathered skin of a man who lived his life in the open air. Around each of his muscular biceps, a narrow band of Celtic knots had been etched into his skin.

  He was intimidating to behold, and Ram had told her the mere mention of his name struck fear into the hearts of those living on the English side of the Welsh border. To them he was a feral force. To his own people he was a folk hero of mythical proportions. Though few had ever met him, all knew of his deeds, and the Marcher lords could get no information from the Welsh villagers to help them find him.

  Mabelle swallowed her fear and exhaustion as Rhodri stood. At more than six feet he was a towering figure, with curly black hair which hung down his back, flowing freely, except for two tight war braids at either side of his face, each bound with amber beads. He was in need of a shave, but she suspected that was always the case.

  “Lady Countess of Ellesmere, I bid you welcome, and I apologise for your difficult journey. I wasn’t aware you’re with child. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym, Prince of Powwydd.”

  He bowed slightly.

  Whatever Mabelle had expected from a Welsh rebel chieftain, this was not it. He spoke courteously, in her language, despite his primitive garb. A memory of her father rattling off his long list of lands and properties flitted into her head. However, she had learned enough about Welsh naming traditions to recognize this man’s pride was in his ancestry, not his lands. She was also well aware this was the man her husband thirsted to kill after their encounter at Ruyton, though Ram had always seemed reluctant to tell her the full details of the rebel’s escape. She supposed no Norman warrior wanted to be reminded that his wounds had been tended by a Saxon woman.

  “Lord Rhodri,” she stammered, trying to gather her scattered thoughts and appear in control of her fear. She returned the bow, but not too deeply. Courtliness aside, this man held their lives in his hands.

  “My lord, my children and my serving women are in need of food and clean clothing.” She took a deep breath. “And I am in need of an explanation as to why we have been—?”

  He silenced her with the same slight movement he had used with Morwenna. “Forgive me, Countess, I haven’t yet finished my introductions. I believe you’re acquainted with my betrothed, Morwenna verch Morgan ap Talfryn?”

  Mabelle looked straight at the girl and felt Rhonwen tense beside her. “Oui. Morwenna, murderess of my unborn child and of Myfanwy Dda.”

  Morwenna protested. “It wasn’t I who murdered that foolish old woman—”

  Again Rhodri silenced her with a look, and she sank back into her chair, scowling.

  Mabelle now knew for certain there was a traitor in Ellesmere Castle.

  Rhodri continued. “As to why you’re here, Countess, it must be obvious by now we intend to ransom you to your husband. He and I have met before, you know.”

  Mabelle’s knees went weak with relief. But was he referring only to her when he spoke of ransom? Seeking protection for her children and her companions she asked, “Do I have your assurances then, Lord Rhodri, that my children and my serving women won’t be harmed while we’re here? Your men have already killed my escort at Whittington.”

  Rhodri strode quickly from the dais and reached the captives in a trice, his hand on the hilt of the large dagger tucked in his belt. Before the exhausted Mabelle could react, Rhonwen moved to protect the boys, and stood defiantly between them and the aggressor.

  Rhodri seemed to be taken aback for a moment as he glared at the healer, apparently noticing her for the first time. It was a few moments before he turned to Mabelle. “Not a single one of the soldiers in your escort was killed when you were taken. I give you my word, as Commander of Cadair Berwyn and Prince of Powwydd, that no harm shall come to any of you as long as you’re in my care.” He winked. “Unless, of course, you try to escape.”

  Suddenly he turned back to Rhonwen, and asked her name in Welsh. That much Mabelle understood, but she became confused when she thought Rhonwen replied in the same language that she was the daughter of Myfanwy Dda. She must actually have said she was a protégé of Myfanwy’s. Rhodri looked at Rhonwen with surprise for a few seconds, and the usually timid healer met his insistent gaze.

  Two things surprised Rhodri when his eyes fell on the healer. One was the strength of his unexpected arousal. The other was the feeling of calm that swept over him when he heard the lilting way in which she spoke his language. It was the Welsh of the Marches. The interview with the captives was something he had prepared for, though anticipation had filled him with nervous tension. Yet now, the intrigue, the plot, the ransom, all seemed someho
w insignificant. Something in nature had shifted and he knew with certainty the change would affect his life dramatically. Who was this young woman he had barely noticed when the hostages were first led in? When she told him she was the daughter of the murdered healer, he wanted to reach out to console her, to explain it was none of his doing. He was drawn to this diminutive woman much more than to his glowering betrothed. But the healer was his captive and probably terrified of him. He turned away sadly and walked back to the dais, glad he was wearing his long jerkin.

  Fear chilled Rhonwen but, strangely, it wasn’t Rhodri she feared. His aura of primitive power drew her and brought on conflicting emotions. As a healer, she recognised and admired a strong, healthy body when she saw one. She was indeed the daughter of Myfanwy Dda, a truth hidden because of her illegitimate birth. The mystical side of her heritage, passed down through generations of Dda’s, drew her to this warrior. She sensed an affinity that transcended the physical and it alarmed her.

  She wanted to reach up and touch his dark face, fondle his braids, run her hands over his tattooed biceps, feel the controlled strength that radiated from him. His deep, sonorous voice evoked the memory of the rich, melodious Welsh folksongs they had enjoyed at the fayre in Whittington.

  Her thoughts made her blush. How childish to expect a Celtic prince to welcome the attentions of a lowly woman such as her. She determined to quell her feelings, knowing with dire certainty she would avenge her mother’s death by killing Morwenna, his betrothed. It was a harsh knowledge for a woman who had dedicated her life to saving others.

  As Rhodri returned to his chair, Morwenna glared at Rhonwen. She had not failed to notice the brief exchange that had taken place between the chieftain and the healer. She smiled at him, but her thoughts were black.

  You look at her while you’re betrothed to me. A curse on you. I have another who’ll give me much more than this windblown fortress.

  “I want to kill the healer,” she told Rhodri after the captives had been escorted back to their chamber, and food ordered for them.

  He looked directly into her eyes, his voice cold. “You’ll not kill any of them. I’ve sworn an oath they’ll be protected here. They’re worth nothing to us dead. We need the coin they will bring. It will allow us to buy the things we desperately need to continue our struggle. Our people have to be fed, clothed and armed. Many in the villages will starve without this ransom money.”

  He turned to Andras. “We don’t have much time. I’ll write the missive. Prepare four men to ride to Ellesmere. We must act before the weather turns against us. The countess is expecting a child, which I wasn’t aware of. We don’t want the babe born here, then he’d be a Welshman. When is our loyal friend from Ellesmere expected to arrive?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

  Andras sneered. “On the morrow, Lord Rhodri.”

  Morwenna could scarcely wait.

  Ransom

  Phillippe de Giroux arrived at the isolated fortress of Cadair Berwyn exhausted and frustrated. He had lost his way twice. Despite his peasant garb, he’d been unable to ask for help because he didn’t speak Welsh and was afraid his manner of speech would jeopardise him. Once he found the right trail, his pony almost lost its footing on the high path.

  The guards who challenged him didn’t seem to know who he was, which added to his irritation until he finally made himself understood.

  “Curse this wild country, and curse these ignorant Welshmen with their fanatical obsession of defeating the Normans,” he muttered as he stabled the pony. “They’ll find out to their sorrow we can’t be defeated.”

  He followed the guards, hoping they were indeed taking him to Rhodri and not some dank cell. He soon found himself in an enormous hall where people were seated at tables and benches, enjoying a meal. The air was redolent with the aroma of venison.

  A giant of a man presided over the gathering, Morwenna seated at his side. He had no doubt this was the rebel chieftain, the so-called patriot prince.

  The chatter ceased when the crowd caught sight of him.

  Affronted by the notion these Welshmen might think to treat him as anything less than a superior Norman nobleman, Philippe paused to help himself to a chunk of meat from the large trestle table at the side of the room, hacked off a piece of coarse black bread and poured a goblet of ale.

  He turned and waited, confident the barbarian would come to him.

  More amused than irritated by the Norman’s typical arrogance and sensing Morwenna’s obvious agitation, Rhodri came down from the dais and joined the traitor who had helped him secure the prize. Rhodri detested spies who betrayed their own countrymen but tried not to show his contempt.

  Giroux glanced in Morwenna’s direction and asked, “All went well?”

  The man didn’t even have the courtesy to introduce himself. “Ydi, yes. Very well. I thank you for your help.”

  “Has the ransom been sent?”

  “Ddoe,” Rhodri automatically replied in Welsh.

  He saw how irritated Giroux was he had spoken to him in Welsh. “Yesterday, hier,” he added.

  Giroux had betrayed Montbryce for his own reasons, not for the freedom of Wales, and he wondered what had caused the anger that drove a man to seek revenge at such a high risk.

  “I didn’t see your men on the trail,” Giroux began, and then quickly changed the subject.

  Rhodri knew then he had lost his way.

  Giroux rushed on. “The weather is already bad in the passes. I hope they get through.”

  “They’re Welsh, they’ll get through.”

  Rhodri was mistaken. A blinding snowstorm howled out of the frigid peaks and caught the messengers unawares. Though autumn blizzards were not unheard of in these mountains, the sudden ferocity of this one forced them to seek shelter in a shepherd’s hut.

  The snow stopped after two days, but they had to wait another sennight before the weak autumn sun melted it sufficiently to make the track safe enough for travel. They had used up their supplies. If they got to Ellesmere, it was unlikely there would be time to return to Cadair Berwyn with the reply to the ransom demand they carried. If they were able to leave Ellesmere alive, they would have to winter in the foothills, and return to the mountains in the spring.

  “Mon Capitaine?”

  Gervais looked up from his task in the Map Room to see one of Ellesmere’s most trusted commanders. The man was clearly exhausted, and Gervais knew why. He braced himself. “What is it, Brémonde?”

  The commander shifted his weight, evidently unsure how to begin. “Mon Capitaine, I’m a loyal servant of the earl. I came with him from Normandie. I grew up at Montbryce. I would never question anything he does.”

  Gervais waited.

  Brémonde cleared his throat. “But, the men, well, we’re exhausted. We’re warriors, used to working hard, to rigorous training. But milord earl is pushing us beyond our limits.”

  Gervais had expected this conversation. “But he pushes himself just as hard.”

  Brémonde nodded vigorously. “It’s true. He does, and we know he’s grieving. We all want the safe return of our beloved comtesse.”

  Gervais chose his words carefully. “It’s difficult for him. He blames himself. He cannot seem to break free of a deeper and deeper melancholia. He’s lost interest in the affairs of the manors in Sussex. I have to admit, I’m at a loss.”

  They stood in uncomfortable silence. Gervais was on the point of dismissing the man when they were disturbed by another soldier, who knocked on the open door and entered.

  “Forgive the interruption, mon capitaine, but there are four Welshman at the gates. They say they have a message concerning our comtesse.”

  Gervais ordered the messengers be taken to the cells, then ran to the hall, where his earl sat slouched in a chair by the hearth, gazing into the charcoal embers.

  “Milord, messengers from the barbarian Rhodri are in the cells. Preparations are being made for their torture.”

  The promise Ram had made to his
wife the morning after their marriage haunted him. “You’ll never want for a safe place to sleep ever again,” he’d vowed.

  Roused from his constant berating of himself for not adequately protecting his family and household, he leapt to his feet when told of the messengers’ arrival. “Take me to them.”

  It was evident the four prisoners had undergone a difficult journey. They were dirty, and battered, their beards unkempt. Yet there was dignity in their bearing. He could sense when a man was afraid, and these men showed no sign of fear as he strode into their dank cell. He wondered how long they had been on the road to his castle with the message.

  Their leader didn’t wait to be spoken to. “Earl of Ellesmere, Comte de Montbryce?”

  His enemy was an educated man, a warrior. “I am he. Who are you and what is your message?”

  “I’m Aneurin ap Norweg,” he replied, withdrawing a small metal tube from inside his sheepskin jerkin which he handed to Ram. “I have a message for you from Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.”

  Ram snatched the tube, willing his hands not to shake. He unrolled the damp parchment coiled tightly inside, squinting to read the blurred message.

  To Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere

  Herein my requirements for the release of your wife, children and household servants.

  Two thousand pounds in Fleury pennies to be brought back to Wales by the messengers.

  If they are killed, and no ransom paid, you will not see your family again. I guarantee the safe return of the captives upon payment.

  Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.

  Ram’s gut tightened. It was impossible. He shook his head. “I can’t comply with these demands. This sum is the equivalent of a year’s income from all my properties. For all I know they’re already dead.”