Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1)

by Anna Markland

  She fell asleep hours later, after they made love again. He carried her carefully to the chamber where the other hostages slept, and laid her on her pallet. He spread her long hair on the pillow and covered her lovingly with the furs. He gazed down at her and whispered, “You’re my destiny, Rhonwen.”

  She didn’t wake, and he left silently.

  The only person awake in the room was Mabelle, who watched him place Rhonwen on the pallet, and heard his words. She wept for their heartbreak, and for the unbearable longing for her own husband.

  The Bridge

  Rhonwen awoke early, disoriented to find she was back on her own pallet. Glancing around, she saw Giselle and her mistress preparing for the journey. She rose and helped herself to bread and honey. The others greeted her normally and she sensed no embarrassment from them. Rhodri must have carried her into the chamber, but no one gave any indication they had seen or heard anything.

  She almost wished they had, then she could pour out her feelings and weep.

  Robert and Baudoin were excited to be going home and looking forward to riding the ponies down into the valley. Rhodri told Robert he could ride his own pony because he had learned quickly in the practice fields. The child was ecstatic.

  “I wonder if Papa will come to meet us,” Baudoin asked.

  “Of course he will,” Robert answered, “And he’ll bring a huge army and slay the Welsh barbarians.”

  Mabelle groaned. “Old habits and beliefs die hard I suppose,” she sighed to Giselle. “Let’s pray there won’t be violence at the border.”

  The previous night she had written a letter to Ram. Rhodri had carefully explained the details of the exchange. If anything went wrong, she wanted her husband to know she loved him. She tucked the missive into the folds between her dress and chemise.

  Rhonwen wrapped the infant in as many swaddling cloths as she could find and suggested to her mistress that she carry the child in a sling she had fashioned from blankets. Mabelle agreed, confident the healer would be better able to manage the burden on the slippery trails and unsure if Rhodri would indeed accompany them.

  However, when they made their way outside, Rhodri was already mounted on his pony. “Give the child to me, Rhonwen.”

  Blushing, she carefully lifted the sling. The Welshman leaned down as she placed the precious bundle around his neck. Mabelle saw their eyes lock for a fleeting moment, then Rhonwen looked away, sniffling back tears. Rhodri cradled the baby to his huge body. Mabelle was reassured his heat would keep her child warm.

  When everyone had mounted, Rhodri shouted, “I Lloegr!”

  The warriors and their hostages began their long journey down the mountain to England, as he had commanded.

  Few words were spoken, despite the captivating beauty of the valleys and glades they traversed, painted gold by carpets of newly opened daffodils. Mabelle sensed Rhodri and Rhonwen were wrestling with their own emotions, and she was full of fear something might go wrong. Would Ram accept her in his bed when she returned? Would the children remember him? Would they make it safely down these treacherous mountain trails? Her hand went to the letter concealed at her breast.

  They stayed overnight in the same cottage where they had found shelter on the outward journey and were surprised to see their own horses tethered to a post. Lying on the palette, Mabelle thought about the things that had changed in their lives since she was last in this isolated foreign place.

  She was the mother of a daughter she had named Hylda, after her mother. The monk had baptised the child. However, Mabelle felt there was something lacking and had decided to wait for the reunion with Ram to decide what other names the child should bear.

  Her sons had grown. They had demonstrated courage and forbearance during the long ordeal, and she hoped, as they grew to adulthood, they would remember some of the good things about the Welsh people they’d known. Giselle had changed too, and Mabelle sensed she had a different perspective about her captors. As for herself, she recognised she loved Ram unconditionally. She hoped desperately he would still want her once they returned.

  Rhonwen had undergone the biggest change. Mabelle suspected the healer and the chieftain had been intimate on their last night, yet she seemed intent on returning with them to England. She knew the girl loved this wild Celt who now carried her own child down the mountain. He obviously cared for the babe he cuddled tightly to his broad chest. Was he thinking of his own children, of what he might have had with Rhonwen?

  “I don’t like this mist,” Gervais muttered. “We can barely see the bridge itself, let alone the other side. The archers will be hard pressed to find their target, if we need them.”

  Ram shifted nervously in the saddle as he and his men waited. “We’ve already been here over an hour,” he replied. “If the wait goes on, the mist may clear.”

  He struggled to stay positive. He had been in many tense situations in his life, but they paled in comparison to the stress he felt now with the lives of his wife and family in the balance. It was as though the mist had seeped into his head. He dismounted to walk around and stretch his legs, trying to overcome the fear and nervousness he felt. As he strolled into the trees near the glade where they waited, his heart raced when he saw a swath of bluebells.

  He felt Mabelle’s presence and his mind went back to the day they had met. What if he discovered she had been raped during her captivity? They’d often jested together about the Fairies of the Blue Thimbles and he prayed to them now that nothing would go wrong. The Welsh bowmen were legendary and it was said they could hit a target with their eyes closed. He suspected Rhodri had men hidden ready to strike if necessary, as he did.

  “I wonder if there will ever be trust between our two peoples?” he mused aloud. “Peace can only come with trust.”

  He was weary of the constant conflict that plagued the Welsh Marches. A warrior first and foremost, he was also a diplomat, a good one, and he resolved to use those skills to a greater degree than he had before. He picked bluebells while lost in thought then carried them to his horse and fastened them to the pommel of his saddle.

  A faint whinny off in the distance, beyond the narrow humpback bridge, brought him out of his reverie abruptly. His gut tightened.

  They are here.

  A loud assertive voice came from the mist. “Earl of Ellesmere, Rambaud, Comte de Montbryce.”

  “I am here,” he shouted back, peering into the impenetrable mist, to see any sign of his family. “To whom am I speaking?”

  “I am Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd. We’ve met before, you and I. Did you bring the ransom we agreed upon?”

  Straight down to business then.

  “Oui. I’ve brought it. How do I know my family is safe?”

  There was a pause, then he heard Mabelle’s strong, calm voice. “Rambaud? Ram?”

  The urge was to charge recklessly onto the bridge. Tears threatened as he tightened his hold on the reins, gritting his teeth and squaring his jaw.

  “Ram?” she called again. “We’re all safe. Robert and Baudoin are with me, as are Giselle and Rhonwen. And your daughter. Lord Rhodri has taken good care of us. We’re looking forward to coming home.”

  A daughter. Ram’s throat constricted. “Robert, Baudoin, you and your mother are well?”

  “Oui, Papa,” yelled Robert. “I’ve taken good care of Baudoin—and my baby sister.”

  Ram coughed in an effort to conceal his momentary inability to find words. The expectant eyes of his soldiers were on him. Much depended on what happened next.

  “My men will place the chests in the middle of the bridge as agreed. They’ll leave them open,” he shouted to Rhodri. “If you have the hostages mounted, I want their horses sent across the bridge first.”

  He didn’t want to run the risk the Welsh would turn and flee with the hostages once they had the ransom. It would make it more difficult if they were on foot.

  “Agreed,” came the gruff reply a few minutes later. “Then we’ll send your family a
cross on foot with four of my men, who will retrieve the chests.”

  Ram didn’t like it, but could think of nothing else that would lessen the dangers. The Welshman held the upper hand and could disappear into Wales without honoring the bargain, if he wished. Ram had to trust him. Mabelle had confirmed they had been well treated, and Rhodri had left him alive at Ruyton, when he might easily have killed him.

  Ruyton brought thoughts of Ascha Woolgar to his mind. He’d been too much of a coward to confess his dalliance. Had Mabelle ever suspected what had happened there? He sensed she knew, yet didn’t judge him. Did it mean she didn’t care, or did she love him enough to forgive him?

  He heard the slow rhythm of hooves approaching. A Welshman appeared out of the mist, leading the horses Ram recognized as belonging to his family and servants. When the man reached the center of the bridge, he slapped them on the rump and they trotted over to the English side, where his soldiers retrieved them.

  Ram took a deep breath. “Gervais, send the men with the chests.”

  Four of his men-at-arms lifted the heavy iron chests and tramped to the center of the stone bridge, where they put them down heavily and lifted the lids. The metallic sounds echoed off the walls and rough cobblestones of the narrow bridge, amplified by the mist and the rushing water of the river below.

  Since Ram could see the coins from where he stood, he assumed the Welsh could also see them. His men turned and strode back towards him. He felt a surge of pride in these Norman soldiers who must be aware of Welsh arrows aimed at their backs, and yet they walked slowly, never looking over their shoulders.

  Out of the mist came Giselle, leading his sons by the hand. Both boys had some sort of wooden shield strapped to their backs. Baudoin looked over his shoulder and waved. The maidservant walked nervously but resolutely to the humpback center of the bridge, passed the chests, and continued on to the English side. Ram dismounted quickly and ran to take his sons up in his arms. Two Norman soldiers hurried to aid Giselle as her knees buckled and she swooned. She looked at them gratefully, then gasped when she realized these were the two warrior sons she had not seen for years. She wept as they embraced her. She smiled her tearful thanks to the earl.

  “Papa, papa, did you miss us?” Robert asked.

  Ram choked. He was amazed to see how much his sons had grown, but angry he had missed that. At least they hadn’t been starved. “Of course I missed you. I love you. I love you both.”

  That wasn’t hard after all.

  He hugged them, noticing each carried a wooden sword and dagger tucked into the belts of their sheepskin jerkins and leather breeches. They looked like miniature Welsh rebels. He found it amusing, but resolved in that moment never to follow the growing trend of fostering sons out to some other noble lord for their training.

  “We rode ponies, Papa. Can we have ponies when we return home?” Robert asked.

  Ram didn’t want his children to feel he didn’t care about the ponies, but was desperate now to see Mabelle. As calmly as possible, he replied, “I suppose we could see to that. Now, I want you to wait with Gervais here, while I greet your mother. She’s coming next is she?”

  “Oui, Papa, she and Rhonwen are saying goodbye to Rhodri, and then they’ll bring ma soeur. Rhodri carried her down the mountain in a sling across his chest.”

  Ram felt a pang of jealousy at the familiar way his family spoke of this Welsh barbarian. “What’s your sister’s name?” He felt like he had something lodged in his throat.

  “Maman named her for our Grandmaman,” Baudoin answered.

  After watching her sons walk across the bridge and disappear into the mist with Giselle, the countess turned to face Rhodri and thanked him as he carefully placed the sling around her neck. “It’s unfortunate, Rhodri, Prince of Powwydd, that our people can’t find some common ground, and instead seem to be constantly at each other’s throats. I’ve learned a great deal about you and your country during our stay in your beautiful mountains, and I’ll share much of what I’ve learned with my husband. He’s a lover of peace and prosperity, and would wish that for both our peoples.”

  Rhodri bowed, took her outstretched hand and kissed it lightly. “Peace can only come with trust and respect my lady. I pray one day we shall find that. Siwrne dda. Good journey.”

  She stepped away to look towards the bridge. Rhodri turned to Rhonwen and took her in his arms. He could smell the dampness in her hair, taste the salt of the tears on her face as he kissed her. He couldn’t speak. If he did his voice would betray his anguish. The experience of their union had enthralled him, but she intended to leave. He understood why, but couldn’t accept it. If she left, he would never again experience the mystical passion their joining had brought him.

  “Rhonwen,” he faltered. “I can’t change what I am. I’ll not beg you to stay. Only you know your heart. But you’re my destiny, and I am yours.”

  His hopes plummeted when she blindly turned away from his embrace and began the walk towards the center of the bridge, clutching her lady’s hand.

  New footsteps on the old bridge caught Ram’s attention. He peered into the mist, thicker now, and saw his wife emerge with Rhonwen who clutched Mabelle’s hand tightly. They were accompanied by four Welshmen.

  Mabelle walked slowly and proudly, head held high, and Ram had never loved her more. Her steadfast Norman courage had seen her through an ordeal that would have broken many women. She walked across the bridge as if she was out for a stroll, a sling across her body that he knew held his daughter. He had a momentary vision of her throwing his sword into the lake. He had fallen in love with her that day. Why had he never told her?

  Rhonwen was having difficulty and he wondered what ailed the healer. She walked with her head bowed. Was she crying? Her shoulders shook. Perhaps she was ill? The two women paused in the center of the bridge. The men stooped to pick up the heavy chests and walked back into Wales in the same slow and dignified manner his own soldiers had walked.

  But why were Mabelle and Rhonwen not continuing to walk towards him? Something had gone wrong. His gut tightened.

  For Wales

  Mabelle took hold of Rhonwen’s shoulders. “You must return to him. He’s right. You’re his destiny and he’s yours.”

  “But my lady—my duty to you. I’m a healer. How can I live with a warrior, a man of blood and war?”

  Mabelle increased her grip and shook the girl. “Because you love him and he loves you. You can’t turn your back on a great love. It will destroy you both. It won’t be easy living with a Welsh rebel, but to live without love is unbearable and creates only bitterness. I’ve wasted too much of my life trying to deny the existence of love. You must embrace it. You and Rhodri will bear many fine children, and perhaps one day our sons and daughters will live together in peace in these mountains and valleys.”

  Rhonwen looked back to Wales. “I can’t see him, but he’s still there. May I embrace you, my lady? You’ve been like a mother to me since my own was murdered.”

  As they embraced, Mabelle asked, “Why did Myfanwy not tell me you were her daughter?”

  Rhonwen sniffled. “She was afraid you’d think she had chosen me because I was her daughter and not because of my skills as a healer. She was ashamed I was a base born child, the daughter of a Saxon knight. I said nothing when it was believed my mother had poisoned you, because I was afraid you’d suspect I was involved.”

  They both looked down at the sleeping child tucked between them and Mabelle suddenly knew her daughter’s second name. “My daughter will be named for you, Rhonwen, in honor of your love and courage and as a token of hope for the future.”

  She kissed the girl on each cheek, turned her, and gave a gentle push. “Now go. And don’t look back.”

  Satisfied the young healer had made the right decision, she resumed her progress towards her husband. As she reached the end of the bridge Ram emerged from the mist and strode towards her. She noticed flecks of silver in his beautiful black hair. “Ram,” she
breathed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  She felt the warmth of his arms as he encircled her waist and his eyes fell to the babe, sleeping peacefully in her sling. “I want to hold you to myself tightly, but I’m afraid I’ll crush the child,” he rasped.

  Mabelle lifted the babe from the sling and handed her to Ram. “My lord husband, I present your daughter, Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce.”

  He looked at the infant who opened her eyes and smiled. “She has your golden hair,” he murmured. Then his eyes widened. “Rhonwen? Why have you named her thus?”

  “I’ll explain,” she rasped. “You’ll understand. I cannot speak of it now.”

  Swallowing hard, he took his wife’s hand and, holding the baby firmly in the other arm, walked to where Giselle stood, supported by her sons. She seemed to have recovered from her momentary dizziness of relief. He kissed the babe’s forehead, handed the child to the maidservant, and turned to his wife.

  The simple touch of his hand can reignite my passion so quickly.

  He had brought her warmest cloak. He retrieved it and draped it lovingly around her, never taking his eyes from hers. She held her breath. He pressed her tightly to his body, enfolded her in his own cloak and whispered, “Mabelle, I’m consumed with love for you. Thank you for this beautiful gift. I’m whole again now you’re back safe with me. My life has had no meaning with you gone. Can you forgive me and return my love?”

  Her legs trembled as happiness and relief flooded her. He had not asked if she had been violated, had uttered no words of blame. He had declared his love for her without any conditions. She returned his embrace and felt the familiar longings she had striven to suppress during her captivity. Suddenly she caught sight over his shoulder of the posy of bluebells attached to the pommel of his saddle. The memories engulfed her. She could hardly wait to get her handsome husband into bed. She pressed against his arousal.