She pressed her palms to her reddening cheeks. It would not do to have people see her face anything but fashionably pale. She must get her errant thoughts back to the present.
Here was a chance to get rid of the Angevin girl, and solve a potential problem to Maud’s succession. Ermintrude had expected the chit to request she be relieved of her duties as lady-in-waiting once she’d been given the odious chamber pot task. The girl evidently had more grit than Ermintrude had anticipated. Packing her off to her parents with her tail between her legs was not an option.
But Maud would be glad of a chance to be rid of any Angevin, including her betrothed, were in within her power. She despised Geoffrey Plantagenet, but would not tolerate other women enjoying his affection.
Ermintrude hastened to her mistress’s solar as quickly as her arthritic limbs allowed. Maud lounged on a chaise, listening to a lute player, the back of her hand resting on her forehead. When she looked up, Ermintrude bent to whisper in her ear, trying to ignore the spasm that surged up her spine. “A minor matter, Empresse.”
Maud sighed deeply, dismissing the lute player with a wave of her hand. He ceased playing and tiptoed from the chamber. “What is it, Ermintrude? I have a headache.”
“One of your ladies-in-waiting has become a problem.”
Maud closed her eyes again. “Get rid of her, then. Why bring this to me?”
Ermintrude’s heart fluttered in anticipation. “The girl is an Angevin.”
“Send her back to Anjou.”
“I cannot. Her misdemeanour involves your betrothed.”
Maud sat up abruptly. “Adultery? The Angevin swine has betrayed me already? Then we shall have a hanging.”
Ermintrude hesitated. She did not want the girl’s blood on her hands. “Non, Highness. But he is taken with her. Public punishment would only embarrass you. I had hoped there might be a more discreet way. A betrothal, perhaps, to some noble family far away from Westminster.”
Maud frowned. “Far from Westminster?”
It pained Ermintrude that it was often necessary to explain every detail to her mistress. “Perhaps a powerful Norman family, whose loyalty needs to be assured with a betrothal to an Angevin.”
Maud’s eyes widened and the corners of her mouth edged up into a sly smile. “Aha! I have it! We shall betroth her to that angry young pup, Montbryce.”
Ermintrude clutched her gnarled hands to her breast, breathing a sigh of relief. “What a good idea, your Highness. Merci.”
CHAPTER NINE
Gallien glared at his father. “Absolutely not.”
Sitting in the lord’s chair in the gallery, Baudoin gripped his knees. “You have no choice.”
Gallien folded his arms across his chest, his legs braced. “I will not submit to this decree. I concede I must marry again, but my bride will not be an Angevin. How can you support this outrage?”
Baudoin shrugged his shoulders. “I have no choice in the matter either. I won’t jeopardise this family by disobeying a royal edict.”
A river of ice flooded Gallien’s veins. “You will throw me to the wolves once again.”
Silence followed. Gallien regretted his outburst. He could not look at his father, who had been as devastated as he at the outcome of his first marriage.
They had all been blinded by Felicité’s fair face and noble upbringing. Her father had been indignant at their allegations, refusing to believe his daughter capable of such behavior. He had threatened retaliation for her death, only withdrawing when her dowry lands were returned to him.
Gallien gritted his teeth, remembering the aroma of Felicité’s perfume and how it had intoxicated him. Lavender.
What a simpering fool he had been, lusting for her even as she cuckolded him.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Je m’excuse, Papa. Forgive me.”
Baudoin indicated the other chair by the hearth. “Sit here by me.”
Gallien sat slowly then cradled his head in his hands, studying his feet. “Who is this girl? Why did they say nothing of the matter while Maud was here?”
Baudoin steepled his hands. “The decree is from Henry, not his daughter.”
Gallien stared into the ashes of the day’s fire, feeling the chill descending on the gallery. “Let’s not fool ourselves into thinking this has nothing to do with Maud’s succession. I’ll wager that virago Ermintrude had a hand in this if the girl is a lady-in-waiting. But who is she, and why do they want to get her away from Westminster? I would have expected Henry to increase the number of Angevins at his court.”
They sat in silence for a long while as the shadows lengthened. A servant came to light the torches. Baudoin rose and stretched. “I am for my bed. Forgive me, I was lost in the memory of the tales Caedmon told us of Blythe’s days as lady-in-waiting to Maud when she was married to Emperor Heinrich. Blythe deemed her a selfish girl at the age of twelve.”
Mention of his half-uncle’s daughter only served to remind Gallien of the happiness she had found with her German husband, Dieter, years ago in Köln. It seemed even the children of the illegitimate branch of the family could find love. Blythe and Dieter had been married more than ten years.
Was he to be the only one denied love? It was unlikely this Angevin wench would bring anything but heartache. He resolved to steel his heart. If it shattered again, he would never recover.
~~~
Peri stepped back from the malodorous sluice where the slopboys disposed of the Palace’s waste into the River Thames. She had been fortunate to befriend a lad who insisted she not be the one to clean the chamber pot once it was emptied. If the stench clung to her after she left the place, at least it was not because any of the offensive material had splashed onto her.
To Peri’s relief, Lady Francine Beaujoie turned out to be the person with whom she shared a chamber. They helped each other dress and disrobe. Peri fretted that Alys and Francine’s maid were nowhere to be found. When they enquired of Ermintrude they were told in no uncertain terms that junior ladies-in-waiting were not entitled to maidservants.
Francine proved to be a stalwart friend, sharing potpourri filched from the laundry mistresses. Peri fashioned a sachet from muslin with a ribbon for her neck. Tucked into the cleavage of her breasts, the sachet of aromatic herbs and spices was hidden, but provided Peri with a reassurance she did not stink like a privy.
She was glad of it when a grim-faced Lady Ermintrude stepped in front of her as she was regaining the royal bedchamber. She clutched the chamber pot to her belly, thinking back through the events of the day, wondering what transgression she had committed. Had the dragon sensed she daydreamed of Geoffrey, far away in Anjou?
She missed him, missed his handsome face. He had behaved wrongly, impetuously, but it was because he craved her, nay perhaps even loved her. She grieved for him—doomed to wed Maud when he loved Peri. She knew the isolation of being a foreigner in this hostile Norman court. She felt his pain, his loneliness, his resentment at being made to do something he did not want to do.
She lowered her gaze as Ermintrude glowered at her. “Bonjour, milady Ermintrude.”
The dragon wrinkled her nose. “You stink of the slop yard. King Henry has commanded your presence in the Throne Room. A tub has been sent to your chamber. You have one hour to bathe and dress in clean garments.”
To Peri’s further astonishment, the harridan grabbed the pot, shooed her away, and disappeared into the royal chamber.
Peri trembled, rooted to the spot. Why would King Henry summon the likes of her? Not for any good reason. Monarchs did not suddenly summon ladies-in-waiting, or anyone for that matter, unless they had done something dire.
Approaching voices jolted her from her reverie. One hour. She forced her feet to move in the direction of the chamber she shared with Francine. A bath. Something she had longed for. At least she would go to her fate clean and smelling sweetly.
~~~
As the palace guard prepared to push open the doors to the Throne Room,
Peri adjusted the ribbon of the hidden sachet, smoothed her skirts, and tightened her grip on the crucifix in her palm, a parting gift from her mother.
She inhaled deeply as she stepped over the threshold, dismayed to see her royal mistress seated at the king’s right hand. Ermintrude stood nearby, looking smug. It was the first time Peri had seen Maud, except from a distance. An image of the contents of the chamber pots she removed thrice daily danced behind her eyes.
A pang of pity for Geoffrey pierced her heart.
Since her arrival at Westminster, she had caught nary a glimpse of Henry. She stared at the old man seated on the throne he had occupied for more than a quarter of a century. She feared a strong breeze might carry him away. He was robed in what appeared to be a richly embroidered shroud, as if expecting death at any moment.
This was the powerful ruler of England and Normandie, until recently arch enemy of Angevins. He was not known for his brutality, unlike his father, but he was crafty, rooting out opposition and making alliances with those who would help him protect his realm. She was a pawn in that game. He held her fate in his grasp. What move did he contemplate as he beheld her quaking before him?
Ermintrude slithered down from her place on high to stand behind Peri, shoving her forward. “Kneel, girl.”
Peri feared that if she curtseyed she would fall over and be unable to rise again. Henry saved her. “There is no need. Approach, child.”
She walked towards him, her head bent low, not understanding how she still remained upright when her legs had churned to butter. Inches from the throne, she stopped.
“You are Peridotte de Pontrouge in Anjou, daughter of Robert de Pontrouge?”
Henry’s voice was strangely kind, and seemed to hold no threat.
“Oui,” she replied in a voice she did not recognise.
Ermintrude poked her hard in the back.
Sweat trickled between her breasts, releasing the perfume of the potpourri.
“Oui, my liege.”
Henry’s nose twitched. His gaze came to rest on her breasts for a brief moment before he turned his attention to a stout man standing nearby. “Chancellor, read the document.”
Document? A warrant for her arrest? The deed of judgement detailing the place and time of her execution?
A high pitched voice interrupted her thoughts. She dragged her eyes to the richly attired Chancellor. Surely such a voice could not emanate from a man as round as a barrel, bejewelled with more rings than he had fingers? She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of his words.
“...Ellesmere...morrow...”
She gasped. She was to die on the morrow. But where was Ellesmere?
“...betrothed...marriage...”
The pompous Chancellor seemed suddenly to turn on his head. The chamber was spinning. Nothing was as it should be.
I love Geoffrey and he loves me. I cannot wed another.
The strange voice had fallen silent. A beefy face loomed over her. She was lying on the floor. “I must have fainted,” she babbled as she was carried forth from the Throne Room by two burly guards. “What did the lord Chancellor say?”
CHAPTER TEN
Cool air wafted over Peri’s face. Someone called her name. She peeled open one eye. Francine was fanning her with a rolled up parchment, smiling broadly. “You’re awake. Thank goodness.”
Peri inhaled deeply. “What happened?”
Francine laughed, offering Peri a hand to help her sit up. “You fainted in the Throne Room. Caused quite a stir, apparently. The battle-axe is beside herself.”
Peri stayed Francine’s hand, still waving the parchment. “I am recovered now.”
Francine giggled, thrusting the parchment at Peri. “This is yours.”
Peri furrowed her brow. “What is it?”
Francine clasped her hands together, gazing at the ceiling. “No wonder you fainted—overcome with happiness, you lucky girl. I wish I was marrying an Earl’s son. It’s your betrothal agreement.”
Peri stared at her friend, her innards doing a strange dance. “Betrothal, but I—”
Francine eyed her curiously. “What?”
“Rien.”
It would be dangerous now to speak of her love for Geoffrey. She supposed Francine suspected, but probably thought it a passing fancy. All young ladies-in-waiting were in love with Geoffrey. Only she knew of his love for her.
Francine swirled away. “Imagine. One day you’ll be a Comtesse. What did you do to deserve such a catch?”
Peri’s head ached. Who was this man Francine prattled about? “I remember mention of Ellesmere?”
Francine clutched a pillow to her breast. “Ellesmere, in the Welsh Marches.”
Dieu! They were packing her off to Wales.
She must have looked stricken because Francine took her hand. “Ellesmere is a prosperous earldom, the English seat of the Montbryce family.”
Peri gasped. “Montbryce?”
The name was well-known to Angevins, uttered with fear and loathing. Montbryces were Norman heroes, famous for their military exploits on behalf of their homeland. Her belly churned. “I’m going to be sick.”
Francine patted her hand, obviously misunderstanding. “Worry not about packing your belongings. It’s taken care of.”
Peri followed the sweep of Francine’s arm. Her trunks were lined up along the wall. She looked back at her smiling friend.
Francine pointed to the parchment. “Read it.”
Peri blinked. She had forgotten the document in her hand. Dazed, she unfurled it and stared at the symbols on the page. Three words danced before her eyes. Gallien de Montbryce.
Francine sighed. “All is in readiness. You depart on the morrow. I wish I could come with you.”
Peri wished Francine was going in her stead.
~~~
The four day journey to Ellesmere was uneventful. King Henry provided an armed escort, and to Peri’s surprise, Comte Fulk of Anjou commanded his emissary in Westminster to accompany her. He conveyed greetings from her parents, ecstatic at the good fortune of their daughter. Their joy only served to compound her misery.
The wagon in which she rode was far more comfortable than the one that had conveyed her from Pontrouge to the coast. It had a wooden roof for shelter from the elements, rather than a canvas thrown over a frame, and the wheels were of better construction, which made the ride smoother. A small brazier warmed her feet.
To her relief, Alys was allowed to travel with her. She had not seen her maidservant since their arrival in Westminster, and the woman regaled her with tales of the misery she had suffered. “Praise be to the saints I am delivered from the kitchens of Westminster. Imagine—a scullery maid at my age. My poor knees will never recover.”
Peri raged inwardly. Ermintrude had treated Alys harshly, no doubt because she was an Angevin.
After listening to the complaints for four days, Peri was tempted to retort that at least Alys had not been obliged to carry excrement. But, better to keep silent. No one would learn of her humiliation at Ermintrude’s hands. At least Alys was a female companion amid this group of armed men.
The only other person who spoke to her was the emissary from Anjou. It was he who pointed out Ellesmere Castle when the impressive stone edifice came into view on the horizon.
Peri ached for a comfortable bed, tired of the rigors of the road. Despite the brazier, she was cold, the English damp seeping into her bones. She wanted to eat good food, and longed to bathe, to feel clean again.
Ellesmere definitely looked like a prosperous castle that held the promise of those comforts, yet she was consumed with an urge to jump out of the wagon and demand she be taken back to Westminster. As if sensing her turmoil, Alys took her hand. “All shall be well, ma petite.”
Her unease grew as labourers in the fields paused to watch them pass by.
“Looks fertile, that land,” Alys observed. “Even at this time of year they can work it.”
As they made their way through the busy
sprawling town outside the castle walls, Peri noted the people looked well fed, and content. Again, many eyes followed their progress. Had they been told of the betrothal of their Master’s son? As the bride of the future Earl, she would one day be the Countess. These would be her people. It was a nerve-racking and surprisingly pleasing notion.
Her heart lifted a little. She would become a Countess after all! Certainly an improvement on serving as Maud’s chamber-pot-maid.
The church, with its Norman tower, was large and well-appointed. She held her breath as they passed through the imposing barbican gate into the wide bailey. There was no turning back now. Geoffrey would never find her in this godforsaken place.
~~~
Carys de Montbryce stood with her daughters, Fleurie and Isabelle, in the windswept bailey of the castle she loved, awaiting the arrival of the woman who was to wed her son.
“She will think it strange Gallien is not here to meet her,” Fleurie said.
Carys inhaled deeply, contemplating the untruth she was about to utter. “Perhaps, but it was unavoidable that he and your father and brother not be here. She will meet them later.”
Fleurie looked at her curiously. Had she guessed that Carys had contrived the men’s absence? She had not wanted Gallien’s brooding animosity to cloud her future daughter-by-marriage’s first opinion of Ellesmere and the Montbryce family.
Her embittered son had been only too happy to go off on a trivial errand rather than greet his betrothed. Baudoin had understood and complied with the plan.
Carys knew nothing of the girl she awaited, except that she was an Angevin of good family, a former lady-in-waiting at Henry’s court. She prayed to the goddess Arianrhod that this woman had been sent to rescue Gallien from his bitter despair.
She had not liked Felicité at their first meeting. Indeed, strange nightmares had presaged her arrival. Carys’ Celtic blood made her a believer in the power of dreams and visions, but she had held her tongue, afraid to challenge the marriage of her son and Felicité. She had regretted it a thousand times over, but Gallien had been taken with the woman, and her credentials had seemed impeccable.
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