Laurent paced, raking a hand through his hair. “Why are you being so stubborn?”
“Our father swore an oath to support Maud.”
Laurent stopped pacing and glared at Alex. “Everyone swore, but it was done under duress.”
Romain pounded his fist into his palm. “If Papa were still alive, he would have switched his allegiance to Stephen. Maud has demonstrated by her actions and her manner she is not suited to be queen.”
Alex bristled. Being lectured as to what his father might have done didn’t sit well in his gut. “And what has Stephen accomplished in the six months he’s been king to warrant our support?”
Laurent braced his legs, hands on his hips. “He marched north almost immediately after his coronation to fend off the attacks by King David of Scotland on Carlisle and Newcastle.”
“But we’re allies of King David. We have his grandchildren as our guests.”
Laurent rolled his eyes. “The point is, Stephen quickly organized a strong defense of the kingdom our Conqueror won for us.”
Alex threw his hands in the air. “But the King of the Scots still holds Carlisle. He gave up only Newcastle, and will attack Northumbria and Cumberland again when Maud invades England. He has sworn it, and we hold Henry and Claricia as a guarantee. What will become of them if we change sides?”
Dread filled his heart. The silence in the gallery was deafening. Maud would quickly take charge of the hostages if Alex changed allegiance. He would never see them or Elayne again.
Laurent put a hand on his shoulder. “Therein, I believe, lies the crux of the problem. What would your decision be, brother, if King David’s grandchildren and their nursemaid were not hostages in our castle?”
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fend off a headache. His brother had spoken true. He was allowing his feelings for the Scots to influence his decision.
Laurent talked on, his hand still on Alex’s shoulder. “I didn’t tell you this, but I accompanied Gallien to Stephen’s Easter Court.”
Alex narrowed his eyes. “At Westminster?”
Laurent nodded. “A wide range of nobles gathered for the event, including many of the Anglo-Norman barons and most of the higher officials of the church.”
Alex shrugged off his brother’s hand and came to his feet. “You had no right to go. There are spies everywhere. Word will have reached Maud and Geoffrey that you were in attendance. They will believe you had my permission.”
“I’m not that important, Alex. You’re the comte, not me. People paid me no mind. You would have been as impressed as I was with the new king. He issued a royal charter, confirming the promises he had made to the church, pledging to reverse Henry's hated policies on the royal forests and to reform any abuses of the legal system.”
Alex shrugged, feeling his determination slipping away. “Anyone can make promises.”
Laurent persisted. “Stephen portrayed himself as the natural successor to Henry, and reconfirmed the existing earldoms in the kingdom.”
Alex thought of his cousin. “Gallien would be happy about that.”
Laurent’s face glowed. “It was a lavish event that must have cost a king’s ransom. Hah! Of course, he’s a wealthy man. He also gave out grants of land and favors to those present, including our cousin.”
Alex fisted his hands at his sides. “Though his coronation has not yet been ratified by the Pope.”
Romain shook his head. “But it will be. Stephen’s brother has that matter well in hand, and Louis of France is also pushing Pope Innocent to ratify Stephen. He likes the idea of Stephen as a counterbalance to Geoffrey of Anjou. Geoffrey cannot be king in his own right but craves the power he’ll wield if his wife Maud becomes queen.”
Laurent grasped Alex’s shoulders. “We will be alienated from our kinsmen if we continue to support Maud. Montbryces have always presented a unified front. Do you want to face Gallien and Étienne on the battlefield?”
Alex sank back into his chair. It was an argument he couldn’t win. “We have to consider that we could lose Montbryce Castle if Maud decides to retaliate. Geoffrey has already attacked and burned a number of castles in Normandie. I will ponder the matter. Leave me now.”
Marguerite
ALEX STARED IN DISBELIEF AT THE MISSIVE Bonhomme handed him. “Zut! Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.”
Frowning, Romain strode away from the hearty fire in the gallery where he’d been warming his backside, his hand held out to his brother. “What is it?”
Alex thrust the parchment at Romain. “Merde. As if there isn’t enough to cause concern.”
Romain scanned the document, then laughed. “Good old Marguerite. Our sister has a knack of turning up at the worst time. How did she find out we had Henry and Claricia here?”
Alex snatched back the letter. “Who knows? Merci, Bonhomme. Fetch the scrivener. I’ll draft a reply quickly and let her know it’s not convenient to come now.”
Bonhomme coughed into his fist, but made no move to leave.
Romain was still chuckling. “Waste of time, mon frère. Once Marguerite has made up her mind—”
Bonhomme nodded.
Alex rose from his chair to pace in front of the fire, the crumpled letter still in hand. “You’re probably right but, by all that’s holy, she intends to bring her entire brood. There’ll be work to do preparing chambers, Bonhomme.”
The steward bowed and took his leave, his mouth curved in a hint of a smile.
Romain retrieved the parchment, smoothing out the creases with his thumbs. “Bien, look at the bright side. The younger ones will be good playmates for Henry and Claricia.”
Alex snorted. “But six of them, brother. Six!”
Romain sat down, crossing one leg over the other, wagging his finger at Alex. “All six nieces and nephews are well-behaved and polite.”
Alex laughed. “They wouldn’t dare disobey Marguerite.”
Romain tossed the letter onto another chair. “Our sister may be overbearing, but she rules her household with a firm hand, and the children are a credit to her.”
“I’ll remind you of that when you’re seeking some place to hide from them. No doubt their father is looking forward to the respite.”
“Listen, you’ve been insisting Claricia needs a noblewoman to learn from. Who better than Marguerite?”
His brother had a point, but Alex felt a twinge of foreboding for Claricia, and her nursemaid.
STANDING IN THE BAILEY awaiting the Comte’s sister three sennights after their own arrival, Elayne’s mind wandered. She watched Henry, standing with the Montbryce brothers, looking entirely at ease, despite the wind that threatened to steal his hat. She saw less and less of her son these days. When he wasn’t spending time with Fernand Bonhomme, he was studying Latin under the watchful eye of the priest, or out in the training fields with the sons of some of the knights and men-at-arms.
She missed him and fretted about his well-being, though she trusted he would never betray their secret. Every night at bedtime he bubbled with excitement relating the details of his adventures. She convinced herself she should be glad he was content and had found friends in this foreign land.
Elayne still had Claricia’s company for most of the day, except when she too was studying Latin. Unlike her brother, Claricia did not enjoy the lessons and balked at repeating the monotonous verb declensions set for study by the elderly priest.
A gust of wind buffeted her, stirring up dust and a sense of foreboding in her breast as Marguerite de Venestre’s carriage ground to a halt in the castle courtyard. It spilled its load of boisterous, excited children, all holding onto their head coverings in the wind. They ranged in age from a toddler of about three to a lanky boy who she’d guess was in his early teenage years.
They calmed as soon as their mother stepped from the conveyance, aided by Bonhomme.
Marguerite tapped her foot impatiently as an open wagon trundled into the bailey. Seven servants, three men and four wome
n, descended from the vehicle quickly and gathered behind the children, assisting with the hat and veil problems. Evidently there was a maidservant for each daughter, a lady’s maid for Marguerite, and three valets for her sons. Not to mention a score of men-at-arms bearing the Venestre devise on their tunics.
Marguerite had her brothers’ dark hair, though it was heavily streaked with grey. She looked more like Alexandre’s mother, though Romain had told her his sister was only five years older than he was.
Elayne suspected she’d once been a beauty, but birthing six children had taken a toll. She was pear-shaped—plump hips, belly and derrière, with no bust to speak of. Her incongruous shape caused her to waddle when she walked.
She scowled at the wind as if it too should obey her.
It was evident, however, that she had complete control over her children. Each executed a perfect bow when presented to Alexandre. He bade them welcome, though there seemed to be little warmth in his greeting and the only physical contact with any them was a brief handshake with the boys.
The three Montbryce brothers gave their sister a perfunctory embrace. Elayne itched to throttle them. She missed the strong reassuring arms of her teasing brother, but Beathan was far away.
Her spirits soared with pride when Henry bowed and Claricia curtseyed politely as they were introduced, first to Marguerite, then to her offspring. The Norman woman immediately paired Claricia off with one of her daughters who looked about the same age, then efficiently matched Henry with a boy the same height.
She lined the children up. The servants fell in behind. Head high, nose in the air, she led the troop into the Keep, acknowledging Bonhomme’s deferential bow as she strode through the door. Elayne fancied the woman’s lips had become permanently pursed after many years of imposing discipline.
Her heart plummeted when the little girls beamed at each other as they entered the Keep hand in hand. Henry walked stiffly beside his allotted partner.
The Montbryce men brought up the rear.
Noah’s Ark!
Elayne smothered a giggle, but her amusement quickly to lonely dismay when she realized a few minutes later she was the only person left standing in the windswept bailey.
ALEX WAS TROUBLED BY THE RECOLLECTION of Elayne standing alone in the courtyard, her skirts rippling in the wind. It seemed wrong. She belonged with the children, yet, little by little, he was prying them away from her.
Marguerite slumped heavily into a chair by the hearth in his solar, prattling about the rigors of the journey, the incompetence of the servants, the disobedience of her children gathered around her. They listened open-mouthed and appeared suitably chastened, though Alex couldn’t imagine they’d put a foot wrong during the entire journey.
She turned her attention to Romain and Laurent, warming their backsides by the fire. “How do you expect me to derive warmth when you are standing in front of the hearth?”
Romain seemed on the verge of responding, then closed his mouth and moved to sit in another chair.
Laurent stepped sideways. “Better, sister dear?”
She grunted, holding her hands to the warmth of the flames, then rubbing them together.
Henry and Claricia stood among the nieces and nephews. Henry stared at Alex’s sister as if she were an ogress. Claricia’s eyes filled with unshed tears as she looked imploringly at Alex.
He shifted his weight in his own chair, wanting to beckon her to his side and explain that while Marguerite may have a loud bark, she didn’t bite.
It would seem odd, especially to his sister.
His niece, who was still holding Claricia’s hand, must have sensed her companion’s discomfort. Rosetta leaned over to whisper something in Claricia’s ear, then smiled at her. Whatever she said seemed to calm the Scottish girl’s fears. She returned the smile, then grinned at Alex.
She wants me to know she is fine.
A bond had formed between him and this little girl. She liked him, trusted him, called him Lix. It tugged at his heart strings and helped him partially understand the relationship between the Scottish children and their nursemaid.
It was a relief when Bonhomme appeared with tumblers filled with the famous Montbryce apple brandy. He was confident his steward was savvy enough to offer Marguerite the first tumbler.
“At last,” she complained, glaring at Bonhomme as she sipped the warming liquid. Then she frowned. “How long has this been in the cask?”
Bonhomme straightened. “Five years, milady.”
Marguerite sniffed the brandy as though she doubted the veracity of what the steward had told her.
Alex held his breath, hoping she was not going to accuse Bonhomme of lying, but then she turned her disgusted gaze on him. “I see you keep the ten year vintage for other visitors. Your sister isn’t good enough.”
The children jumped collectively when Romain banged his empty tumbler on the arm of his chair. “Tastes fine to me,” he exclaimed, licking his lips.
“Me too,” Laurent echoed.
Things hadn’t changed much in more than twenty years. His siblings loved each other, but quarreling and baiting was second nature. Alex had rarely played a role in their bantering games. It saddened him that it was too late to start now.
He drained his brandy. “Excellent,” he observed, handing his tumbler to Bonhomme. “Are my sister’s chambers ready?”
“Who was the woman with red hair in the bailey?”
Marguerite’s question took him by surprise. “Red hair?”
Romain coughed loudly.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice. You barely took your eyes off her. Is she your latest mistress?”
Laurent made a choking sound.
Alex glared at his sister. “Contrary to what you believe, I am not in the habit of taking mistresses. The red-haired woman is nursemaid to Henry and Claricia Dunkeld.”
“Well, you can get rid of her now that we are here. My servants are more than capable of taking care of two additional children.”
Alex’s heart lurched.
Henry looked ready to launch himself at Marguerite.
Claricia’s lower lip quivered.
Alex came to his feet. His sister’s words bothered him for two reasons. Surely she didn’t intend to stay for a long period of time? The other emotion churning in his gut had more to do with the possibility of not seeing Elayne every day. He’d grown fond of her smile; she aroused his body, but calmed his mind. Life was more pleasant when she was present. “Elayne has been Henry and Claricia’s nursemaid since they were babes. They love her and she loves them. I don’t intend to deprive them of her care.”
Marguerite stared at him through narrowed eyes. “You’re blushing, mon frère. All this talk of love. You’re sure she’s not your mistress?”
Playing Soule
THINGS CHANGED after Marguerite’s arrival. Though her children were well behaved, the castle filled with their chatter and noise of their play. Claricia and Rosetta quickly became fast friends, and it was rare to see one without the other.
Henry, Fernand Bonhomme and Tyrel Venestre seemed to be everywhere at once, brandishing toy swords or playing soule with Tyrel’s brothers. Alex advised them to take the game out of sight of Marguerite who had always deemed it too dangerous, citing instances of broken limbs. While this was true, such injuries normally took place when hundreds played, not a handful of small boys.
They took his advice and often played in the meadow near the apple orchards. When his duties and responsibilities had been taken care of for the day, Alex fell into the habit of wandering out to watch them, laughing at their attempts to kick or bat the ball. A good deal of time was spent chasing Faol when he made off with the ball or wrestled a stick from a player’s hands.
Alex noticed the old wooden ball didn’t travel very far. It was cracked in several places, and splinters were inevitable. Sticks broke regularly.
He spoke to Bonhomme who after a day or two produced a new ball, a pig’s bladder covered with le
ather and stuffed with horse-hair. Alex’s nervous anticipation at giving it to them surprised him. The lads almost drooled when he presented it.
Fernand bent the knee, the new ball tucked under his arm. “Milord, it would be an honor if you played with us.”
Alex’s first reaction was to refuse. He’d never joined in games of soule as a boy. But a little voice inside his head admitted he’d always wanted to. A refusal would wipe the hopeful looks off the faces of these youngsters.
As if sensing his hesitation, Henry Dunkeld touched his arm. “Please join us, milord.”
Smiling, Alex unfastened his tunic, shrugged it off and threw it to the ground.
The lads cheered. Tyrel handed him his stick. “Me, Henry and Fernand are trying to get the ball to the orchards, oncle. My brothers and their friends are trying to get it to the bailey.”
Alex eyed both teams, then looked at Henry and Tyrel’s expectant faces. He’d been called uncle many times, but suddenly it meant something. “I’ll play with you.”
At first, he felt foolish kicking the ball that never seemed to go where he intended. However, he was soon caught up in the game, yelling, cheering, booing, elbowing, shoving, rolling in the dirt when someone pushed him.
The noise, augmented by Faol’s enthusiastic barking, attracted Romain and Laurent who were quickly recruited.
“I’m an expert at this game, brother. Watch me,” Romain declared. “We’ll soon have this ball in the bailey.”
Alex was determined to prove him wrong.
Two hours later, he lay under an apple tree, panting as he gazed up at the budding fruit, every bone in his body aching. But they had won! Henry strutted around holding the battered ball high above his head, Faol nipping at his heels.
Alex’s boots were muddied, probably ruined beyond repair. He was sure he had bruises on the bruises on his shins. His shirt was torn and filthy, his hair a tangled mess.
He’d never felt better in his life.
Jeopardy (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 10) Page 5
