Peri groaned again.
“Very well, act like a petulant child. You are confined to this chamber until you come to your senses. But don’t take too long. We must see to your wardrobe before you depart.”
Peri heard the door close. Guilt crept into her heart. She hated disappointing her loving parents. She and her sister had never lacked for anything. But now they expected her to serve the Norman woman who had stolen her beloved?
Feeling nauseous, she sat up in bed. Her nose and ears were plugged and her belly roiled. Maud was a princess. Nay more than that, she was the widow of an Emperor. What did she want with a thirteen year old? Perhaps her mother was right that it was a marriage forced on Geoffrey by his father.
Peri had never been to England, nor for that matter to Normandie. She had been weaned on hatred and suspicion of Normans. They held the power in England. She would be among enemies in the court of King Henry Beauclerc.
She would not go, though it would be good for Geoffrey to have a friend, a fellow Angevin, to turn to in a foreign land. That might be the only reason for agreeing to go.
~~~
Fermentine’s nose twitched. “Too dark. The color does not become you.”
Peri looked up at the ceiling, determined to hold on to her rising temper. “I like the dark green. It goes well with my hair.”
Fermentine huffed. “Please yourself. If you don’t want my opinion—”
Their mother got up from her knees and took the pins out of her mouth. “Let’s not argue. I agree with Peri. The dark green looks good. I’ll get the seamstress to sew the hem. Next we’ll try the olive green.”
Peri fumed as Fermentine strutted out of the chamber. Her mother’s patience with her sister’s jealousy infuriated her. For three sennights, the spiteful woman had found fault with every garment she had tried on. This one was old fashioned; another showed too much décolletage.
Peri had to admit to secretly enjoying the feel of the new gowns, and could not deny she liked the attention, but guilt plagued her. “Maman, this is too much expense. I am going as a lady-in-waiting, not a princess.”
While her family were of noble birth and their house was comfortable, they prospered in large part because of her father’s frugal management of their land.
Peri could not recall the last time she had seen her mother in a new gown. At Fermentine’s wedding she had worn a refurbished dress.
Aurore de Pontrouge smiled. “You are my princess, and we can well afford to send our daughter to Maud looking regal.”
Peri winced as a pin scratched her arm. Her mother would never admit that her wardrobe would drain the family coffers, only recently recovered from providing for Fermentine’s dowry, meagre as it was.
So much fuss and money to send her to a fate she would rather renounce. She was tired of the well-meaning congratulations of neighbours, but her parents’ obvious pride in her elevation convinced her to pin a smile on her face and accept the envious remarks.
Her abiding consolation was that as lady-in-waiting to Maud, she would have occasion to be in the same place as Geoffrey, especially once he married the Empress. It was a bittersweet thought.
CHAPTER THREE
Peri pouted as she waited by the cart bound for Saint-Malo and the boat that would carry her and her baggage across the Narrow Sea to England.
“Careful you don’t trip over your bottom lip,” Aurore de Pontrouge teased.
Peri resolved to sulk all the more. She studied her boots, her belly a pit of dread. Fermentine stood watching, the usual smirk on her bloated face.
A momentary pang of sadness rose up in Peri’s throat as she looked at her sister’s rounded belly. She would not miss Fermentine, but it pained her that she might never set eyes on her first nephew, or niece.
Her mother dabbed away a tear with a crumpled kerchief, making Peri feel worse. She had not given much thought to how difficult this separation would be for her parents.
“Don’t cry, maman,” she murmured which caused her mother to wail more loudly.
Her father, Robert de Pontrouge, strode up, his always florid face redder than usual. “Is everything in readiness?” he asked gruffly, patting his wife’s shoulder and pulling her to his side.
Peri had never seen them so bereft. That they loved her was plain to see. She resolved in that moment to swallow her fears. “All is ready, Papa, though I confess I am not looking forward to the long journey in the cart.”
Her mother twisted her hands into the fabric of her overgown. “It will be a long three days. However, Terak and Roland will see to your safety, along with the Comte’s escort. What an honor he affords us! And you’ve your own maid, Alys, who’ll take care of your comforts, as she has since you were a babe.”
Peri glanced at the woman who had served her all her life, now clutching the side of the cart, her lined face awash in misery. She too was leaving the comfortable home she had known for years, bound for an uncertain future in a hostile land.
Fermentine came forward to bid farewell. They embraced as best they could, given the unborn child between them and their lifelong dislike of each other.
Peri turned to her mother who sobbed quietly, the skirts of her gown now a wrinkled mess. “Do not fear for me, Maman. I will be the best lady-in-waiting Maud has ever had.”
“That’s my girl. Never forget we named you for the precious jewel you are. With those green eyes, you will soon win the heart of some handsome knight.”
Peri flushed. Having eyes that reminded her parents of the peridot gemstone had not helped her win Geoffrey.
Her father brushed a kiss on her forehead. Terak helped her up into the cart, his weathered face grim. He too had been with her family since before she was born, a loyal servant.
Patting her maidservant’s hand in reassurance, she sank into the cushioned place among the trunks that Alys had prepared for her. As they lurched out of the courtyard, she held on to the side of the cart with both hands, resolved not to look back at the sturdy stone house where she had grown up.
A splinter from the rough wood drove into her thumb. She sucked it, determined not to cry. Powerless to change the fate that lay before her, she vowed to cherish the love in her heart for Geoffrey Plantagenet. In time he would come to value her, if only as one of his wife’s servants.
~~~
Through interminable miles of flat plains and forests, Peri struggled to keep down the bile rising in her throat. Tenants farmed Pontrouge land, but she had rarely been in close proximity to farm animals. She had never ridden. Overwhelmed by the constant stink of the carthorse’s urine and frequent droppings, she held her breath until her bloated cheeks threatened to burst. How did an animal that ate so little produce so much manure? The beast seemed to delight in flicking its tail arrogantly towards her each time it dropped its foul dung.
At the reins, Terak and Roland appeared impervious to the stench, despite their perch directly behind the animal’s rump. She supposed a lifetime working with horses had permanently damaged their noses.
Alys slumbered for most of the journey, snoring loudly.
At night, Comte Fulk’s soldiers spread a canvas over the frame of the cart. The only time the women left the wretched vehicle was to answer nature’s call. Invariably, the horse would choose the moment of their return to urinate, producing a steaming stream of liquid from an incredibly long appendage that protruded from its belly. Alys’ face reddened as she chided Peri not to look, though the maidservant seemed to have difficulty averting her eyes.
Peri longed for a bath and feared her stench would soon rival that of the horse’s posterior. Her derrière ached.
The military escort provided by the Comte seemed ill at ease as they ventured into sparsely travelled areas of Bretagne, avoiding the town of Rennes. The landscape became more uneven, rocky outcroppings appearing here and there at the side of the rutted route. Their relief was evident when they arrived at the port of Saint-Malo.
Peri had never seen the sea. It was dar
ker and more ominous than she had expected. A chill swept over her at the memory of the oft told tale of the foundering of the Blanche Nef in these same black waters.
Her heart fell further when she set eyes on the boat that was to take them across to England. It was small, and dirty. There was no shelter for passengers, and she feared their weight would sink the flimsy craft in the harbor as soon as they boarded.
She had been brought up never to challenge a man, but glared at the captain of Fulk’s escort. “Is this the best you can do?”
Even to her ears, her voice sounded tremulous.
He sneered back. “What did you expect? Looks seaworthy to me.”
Peri seriously doubted the veracity of that opinion, and the look of terror on Alys’ face told her the maidservant believed she was going to her doom. “We cannot travel in that. We will drown.”
The soldier shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
She watched in dismay, gripping the side of the cart as he turned his troop away and disappeared into the busy streets of the port. Another splinter entered her flesh.
“Merde!” she exclaimed loudly, her face reddening when she realized her servants had heard the unladylike curse.
Alys’ hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.
Terak chuckled.
“Naught for it but to board, milady,” Roland muttered.
A withered man she supposed was the captain of the tiny craft ventured towards them. He held out a bony hand. “Milady.”
Peri struggled to her feet, barely able to stand as the blood rushed to her extremities. She teetered towards the side of the cart, but Roland shoved the man out of the way. “You’ll not put your hands on my mistress. ‘Twas for me and Terak to bring her safely to you.”
She silently blessed the old man as his gnarled hands took her by the waist and lifted her down. He smelled of horse. She stiffened her spine, buoyed by the loyalty of the peasant who had served her family since childhood. “I will miss you, Roland. And you, Terak.”
Both men sniffled and bowed. “We’ll miss you too, milady Peridotte.”
Tears welling, she nodded to them, then turned to her maidservant. “Come along, Alys. England awaits.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Gallien stood impatiently before his father, his right heel tapping the floor nervously. It was a habit he hated, a legacy of Felicité’s betrayal, an uncontrolled weakness. They’d had the occasional disagreement in the past, but Baudoin’s face was red with uncharacteristic anger. Gallien was relieved his mother was also in the gallery, but it irked that his younger brother was present too. His father had summoned him. If he was to receive a scolding, he did not want Étienne revelling in his humiliation. At least his giddy sisters were already in the Hall.
“Papa,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.
Baudoin strode away to pace before the hearty fire that crackled and spat in the massive stone fireplace. The pop of his mother’s needle piercing the stretched linen she embroidered was the only other sound.
Judging by the aromas rising from the kitchens they would be dining on pheasant this evening—his favorite dish.
In an effort to still his leg, Gallien rocked back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels, hands behind his back, eyeing the familiar banners wafting in the warm air in the rafters. Some had hung there since his grandfather’s time and looked frayed and smoke-darkened. Many were the handiwork of his grandmother, Mabelle de Montbryce.
His mother knew how to sew, as evidenced by her current preoccupation, but was better known for her healing skills.
A smile came to his lips as he watched her. Her long hair had greyed but she was still beautiful. It was a bitter thought that his own wife had been a shrew.
“There is no reason to smile,” his father declared, jerking Gallien’s attention back to him. He had stopped pacing and now glared at his son.
“I was thinking how beautiful Maman still is,” Gallien explained.
“Changing the subject won’t help,” his father rumbled, “though I agree.” He smiled at his wife who blushed at the praise.
Dieu! Married more than five and twenty years and still in love.
He was jealous of his parents! He clenched his jaw. “What is it you wish to discuss, Papa?”
Baudoin resumed his pacing. “You are fully aware of what I want to talk about. I am informed you have been sending messages throughout England, drumming up opposition to King Henry. Do you want to get us hung for treason?”
Gallien’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears, but he took a deep breath. “I am as loyal as any Norman to King Henry. It is his insistence on putting Geoffrey Plantagenet on the throne I object to.”
Baudoin rolled his eyes. “Dieu, Carys, he sounds like your father.”
Étienne snorted, but quickly averted his eyes when his mother glared at him. She laid aside her embroidery and came to her feet. She walked over to the mantel and put a hand on her husband’s arm. “It’s true Gallien has inherited many of my father’s traits, but what is wrong with that?”
Gallien felt vindicated. “Thank you, Maman. I am proud of my Welsh ancestry, though we don’t mention it in front of our Norman friends.”
Carys frowned at him. “But Rhodri ap Owain was not a hothead. He planned his moves against Norman strongholds carefully and was a great strategist. The Normans never did catch him in all the years of trying.”
Étienne guffawed. “You cannot claim the Montbryces tried hard to capture him.”
Baudoin’s mouth tightened. “Non, that is true. I never wanted to be in the unenviable position of executioner of my father-by-marriage. But I have no doubt my father would have sent him to the gallows if he had been foolish enough to be captured in Ellesmere territory.”
Gallien’s leg recommenced its dance. He ground his heel into the planked floor. “I am not a hothead. Nothing I have done will endanger this family. If you prefer, I will be more discreet.”
“Non!” Baudoin thundered. “You will cease altogether with this scheme. The King still lives and may rule for many more years. This is not the time to stir up trouble. Henry did not hesitate before acquiescing to the blinding of his own grandchildren for what he perceived as the disloyalty of their parents. Do you believe we will rate any better treatment?”
Silence ensued, everyone’s thoughts evidently on the brutal mutilation of Henry’s illegitimate granddaughters. The King did not take kindly to acts he considered a breach of trust.
Gallien could not hold his tongue. Certain realities had to be faced. “Henry’s determination to bind Anjou to Normandie is dangerous. It has further raised the ire of King Louis of France. Louis has therefore poured more support behind Henry’s nephew, William Clito, in his quest to take the Duchy of Normandie from Henry.”
Baudoin looked up into the rafters, his expression baleful. “Oui. Those of us who helped capture Henry’s brother, Curthose, at Tinchebray twenty years ago, foolishly believed the conflict over control of the Duchy was at an end. But now his son, Clito, has returned from exile and reignited the dispute.”
Gallien hesitated. Should he pursue the matter? His father seemed willing to talk. “I sometimes wonder if the long rivalry between Henry and Louis will ever end.”
Baudoin grunted. “The conflict has not spilled over into England, but it’s true that Normandie has suffered greatly from French incursions. We are fortunate Montbryce Castle is not close to the border with France.”
Gallien had to bring the argument to its inevitable conclusion. “That’s why I am perplexed that Henry has not named his nephew, Stephen of Blois, as his heir. Such a move would not stir up the same emotions as naming a woman as his successor.
“Stephen controls extensive properties in England as well as Boulogne and Blois. He and his wife are among the wealthiest noble families in England. When he came to Henry’s court after his father’s death, he did well. Henry thought highly of him and he rose to prominence quickly.”
Étienne interrupted. �
�Many believe God intervened, sparing Stephen from the wreck of the Blanche Nef.” He gripped his belly and grimaced. “He stepped off the doomed boat moments before it sailed, stricken with diarrhea.”
Baudoin nodded. “Stephen is a legitimate choice, a grandson of the Conqueror. His mother, Adela of Normandy, was the Conqueror’s favoured child.” He chuckled. “No wonder William doted on his daughter, given the quarrelsome nature of his sons.”
He winked at Gallien, then, unexpectedly, strode to the door and bade his family follow him to the Great Hall for the evening meal.
Gallien shook his head. “I will join you momentarily.”
Alone in the gallery, he noticed his mother had left her sewing. He picked it up then slumped into the chair she had vacated. It still held her warmth. He fingered the stitches of her embroidery.
Loneliness washed over him and a longing to be the object of a passion like the love his mother lavished on his father. But it would never be. Felicité had seen to that. He was fated never to suffer the Montbryce curse. It had been a family jest since his grandfather’s time that Montbryces were that most unusual of things—noblemen in love with their wives.
He lay the sewing aside carefully, leaning forward to gaze into the fire, his forearms on his thighs. If only the flames held some clue as to the right path to follow. His hatred of Angevins rankled, despite that his grand uncle, Antoine, had married an Angevin widow many years before. Her son, Denis de Sancerre, was one of the bravest and noblest knights Gallien had ever known, notwithstanding his dwarfed stature.
Regret filled Gallien. His father probably looked upon him now as the quarrelsome son, a thorn in his side. Nevertheless, he intended to pursue the matter of Stephen of Blois. Many nobles in England would support Stephen’s claim over Maud’s. He was at least ten years older than his cousin, already a proven leader. More importantly, he was a man. How could a woman be Queen in her own right?
Hearts and Crowns Page 2
