Carys longed for Gallien to regain his good humor. She ached to see once more the teasing glint in his eye when he plotted some mischief. She wanted her son back.
Dreams had revealed nothing of this newcomer. Carys would have to rely on her own first impression.
Isabelle squeezed her arm. “I’m excited. Another sister.”
Fleurie chewed her bottom lip. “Let’s hope she is an improvement on the last one.”
Carys’ heart ached for the damage wrought upon her family by Felicité’s duplicity. Gallien was not the only casualty of that war, though he had suffered the most.
As the cavalcade entered the bailey, her heart sank. The carriage was closed. She would not see Peridotte de Pontrouge until she descended from the conveyance.
Two men dismounted, one with King Henry’s devise on his surcoat, the other Fulk’s man. Both bowed deeply, each in turn brushing a kiss on the knuckles of her proffered hand. She hoped they would attribute her trembling to the chill in the air.
“Milady Comtesse of Ellesmere, I am Gaston Malnorm, in the service of his Majesty King Henry.”
He turned to the other man, his face full of scorn. “This is Dollard Ballustre, emissary of Comte Fulk d’Anjou.”
Carys nodded in acknowledgment.
Ballustre cleared his throat. “I am the official escort for Demoiselle Peridotte de Pontrouge. With your permission I will assist her from the carriage.”
Isabelle rocked back and forth on her heels.
Fleurie folded her arms across her breasts.
Carys flirted with the notion of refusing to welcome Gallien’s new bride. Better to spare him the risk of more heartache. “Of course,” she murmured. “She must be frozen to the bone in that contraption.”
The crude wooden door creaked as Ballustre yanked it open. An older woman took his hand and stepped down with some difficulty. A maidservant.
Carys glanced at her daughters, then looked back at the open door.
Ballustre spoke to someone inside the carriage. “Ready, Demoiselle?”
He braced one foot on the step and reached up to lift down his charge. He turned and set a beautiful young woman on her feet. She clung to his shoulders, looking exhausted and scared to death.
Carys almost swooned with relief. Everything was going to be alright.
~~~
As Peri swayed, a woman rushed forward to grasp her hand and embrace her. “Bienvenue, croeso i Ellesmere, Peridotte, I am Carys de Montbryce.”
Peri could scarcely believe this friendly person was the Earl’s wife, her future mother-by-marriage.
The woman laughed, evidently sensing her confusion. “Yes, I am the Countess of Ellesmere, and these are my daughters, Fleurie and Isabelle.”
Two young women launched themselves at her, babbling effusive greetings. She was whisked into the Keep and settled into a comfortable chair before a hearty fire. A servant peeled off her boots and hose, and rubbed warmth back into her frozen toes. A tumbler was thrust into her hand.
“Sip it,” the Countess admonished.
The golden liquid tickled her nose and burned her throat, but its warmth seeped into her veins.
“It’s the famous Montbryce apple brandy,” Fleurie explained with a grin.
Peri could only nod, having no idea what that meant. As the trio talked on, she gazed around the Great Hall in which she sat. Despite its size and grandeur, it was comfortable, the banners hanging from the rafters telling of the family’s proud history. Now she would be part of that history when she married—
She frowned. Her betrothed had not come to welcome her.
“Gallien and his father and brother had to leave the castle to attend to an estate matter.”
Again, the Countess seemed to have sensed what was in her mind. It was disappointing that he had not welcomed her, though she had dreaded meeting him. But it was an insult nevertheless, and did not bode well. Why had he not come?
Fleurie and Isabelle had stopped talking. Both averted their gaze. Peri felt uncomfortable in the sudden silence, wondering what it was they were not telling her. They too had secrets.
It came to her suddenly that she had yet to speak a word to these Normans. They must think her an imbecile. She took another sip of the aromatic liquid. “Merci. I am warm now,” she murmured.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Peri paused before the arched wooden door to the Chart Room of Ellesmere Castle. It had been left ajar. “A moment,” she whispered to the Comte d’Anjou’s emissary.
Ballustre bowed, stroking his pointed beard. A tight smile flickered for only a moment, betraying his nervousness.
She smoothed her hands over her skirts and carefully adjusted the veil that threatened to slide from her braided hair. Alys had worked her usual magic with the wrinkled gown, barking orders at the maidservant sent by the Countess as if she were the lady of the castle. They had chosen the gown of forest green wool because it suited her skin and hair color—and her mood. This was not the festive occasion she had dreamed her betrothal ceremony would be.
She had not slept. None of the Montbryce men had returned by the time she had retired to her chamber the previous evening.
She raised her chin, then turned to her escort. Despite the dread churning in her belly, she said, “I am ready.”
He laid his palm against the door. It swung open without a sound and he ushered her inside. Her knees threatened to buckle as she stepped over the threshold into a new life she did not want. She was to be bound to a man who had not welcomed her and who had failed to appear this morning in the Great Hall.
She had broken her fast in uncomfortable silence with Fleurie and Isabelle, nibbling on a crust of freshly baked bread, feeling like a prisoner condemned to the gallows.
Determined to appear unruffled, she thrust out her chin. Her gaze fell on two heads of white hair, both bent to the close study of some document upon the table. She faltered. By the wood of the true cross! Had Henry betrothed her to an old man?
At her gasp, both men looked up. They shared a resemblance, except one was a good deal older than the other. The older man smiled, his eyes full of warmth and welcome.
The younger, taller knight straightened. Back rigid, lips in a tight line, he narrowed his eyes. Her belly lurched. Gooseflesh marched across her nape. She had never seen a young man with hair the color of moonbeams. Yet his eyebrows were black as night. It was strangely compelling. The unrelieved black of his doublet, hose and boots made his appearance all the more startling. Under his dark gaze, she felt like a rabbit caught in a snare.
He was much taller than she, a broad-shouldered warrior whose bearing and attire left no doubt about his wealth and power. It was immediately evident he did not welcome this betrothal. He did not want her.
As the older man stepped forward, offering his hand, a doomed hope that he was her betrothed befuddled her wits.
“Milady Peridotte. Bienvenue. Welcome to Ellesmere Castle. I am Baudoin de Montbryce. I apologise for my absence yesterday.”
The fog of despair lifted. The still handsome Earl was evidently as friendly as his wife. Surely the son—?
She accepted the Earl’s hand and he bowed to brush a kiss across her knuckles. It was an honor she was obliged to acknowledge, though she feared no words would issue from her dry throat. She averted her gaze. “Merci, milord Earl.”
He held on to her hand and led her to the arrogant man who had made no move towards her. If she balked, she would never have to bear the touch of the haughty nobleman who eyed her with scorn.
But refusal was not an option. Her father had never beaten her, but she would surely feel the full weight of his wrath if she disgraced her family by spurning an alliance arranged by the King of England. After the beating she would be sent to a nunnery.
The well-muscled giant with the silver hair was her husband-to-be. She wanted to blurt out that she loved Geoffrey Plantagenet, but that would only serve to deepen his obvious disdain and intensify his wrath.
&n
bsp; The Earl passed her hand into that of his son. “Milady Peridotte de Pontrouge, may I present to you mon fils, Gallien de Montbryce, your betrothed.”
The warmth of his skin was a shock, but he made no attempt to bestow a kiss. He merely let her hand rest on his. “Enchanté,” he rasped, but his icy blue eyes did not reflect his professed delight at meeting her. Nor did he acknowledge her by name.
“Milord de Montbryce,” she murmured.
He dropped her hand like a red hot ember from the brazier. Resentment flared in her throat. It was an insult.
Comte Fulk’s emissary coughed.
Her betrothed shifted his weight, his fists clenched at his side. He shot a glance of pure hatred at the Angevin escort. “Shall we get this over with?”
Retrieving the documents from the table, the Earl scowled at his son. He reassured the emissary. “I believe everything is in order.”
Misery welled up in Peri’s heart. All in order? Nothing was as it should be. She had dreamed of a life of love, happiness, and prestige as the wife of Geoffrey Plantagenet. Instead she was doomed to wed a cold, heartless foreigner who obviously did not want her, much less love her.
The emissary returned the documents to the table, accepted the inked quill from the Earl and signed both copies with a flourish. It appeared she was not to be allowed to read the agreement that would bind her to the Montbryce monster. They probably thought her illiterate because she was an Angevin.
Misery gave way to anger. When the emissary offered her the quill, she sauntered to the table and picked up the parchment. Fulk’s man gasped. “All is as it should be, milady.”
Holding the quill in mid air, she peered down her nose in the condescending way Fermentine invariably looked at her. “I will read for myself before I sign.”
Not daring to look at her betrothed, she hazarded a glance at her future father-by-marriage, surprised to see a slight smile curving his lips. She drew her eyes back to the parchment, not actually reading, but determined to delay the inevitable. What did she care about the dowry she brought with her or what lands her future husband had endowed her with? Her life was over.
Her eye lingered only on her betrothed’s full name. He was Gallien Rambaud. Was there a soul in Anjou who had not trembled at mention of the name of Ram de Montbryce, the great hero of the Battle of Hastings, friend, and confidant of the hated Norman Conqueror?
Gallien’s grandfather.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the impatient tapping of her betrothed’s foot. His irritation gave her a moment’s satisfaction, but she doubted she could delay any longer. Chewing her lower lip, she bent low to the parchment and signed her name deliberately in the appropriate places, praying the ink would not blot. Her tutor, the curé of Pontrouge, had ever bemoaned her slow penmanship.
How she wished her mother and father were present. She had never felt more alone, even in the worst moments of toting chamber pots in Westminster.
Sweat beaded between her breasts as she stepped back from the table, offering the quill to the Earl. She willed the trembling in her hand to stop, thankful for the potpourri sachet. He smiled as he accepted it and put his name to the agreement.
Gallien de Montbryce stepped forward, staring at her belly. “Are you with child?”
Peri gripped the table, afraid she might swoon.
Ballustre reached for the hilt of his sword.
The Earl glared at his son. “That was unworthy of you. You will apologise to your betrothed.”
Gallien scowled. “She isn’t yet my betrothed. It’s a simple question. Oui or non?”
Drowning in heat, Peri searched her memory. She had not discussed such matters with her mother and sister. Now a man, a stranger, had broached the forbidden topic.
How had Fermentine known she was enceinte? It had something to do with menses. They stopped. Fermentine and her husband had been hastily married shortly thereafter. Peri’s courses had continued normally. “Non,” she whispered.
Gallien smirked, then dipped the pen in the inkwell and signed the document without reading a word.
He too has accepted this as inevitable.
A twinge of pity for him tugged at her. But he was cold and arrogant. He did not bestow another glance on her. Were it not for the facial resemblance between the two Normans she would have deemed them unrelated. It was evident her future husband hated her, seethed that he had been bound to an Angevin.
Cold fear crept up her spine that his hatred might turn to cruelty.
The emissary accepted his copy of the agreement and bowed his farewell to the Earl and his son, ignoring her completely. The bargain had been completed.
She took a deep breath. Her betrothed was one of the most handsome knights she had ever seen, despite the scowl on his face. His silver hair added to his beauty. Doubtless many Norman noblewomen had pursued him. He could have had anyone of his choosing, but had been forced to accept her.
Resentment was the one thing they had in common, but she resolved not to let that soften her heart towards him.
~~~
Gallien recognised the censure in his father’s gaze. It did nothing to calm his raging heart. Decorum dictated he escort his betrothed to the banquet prepared in their honor. He did not want to touch her, though a strange urge had come over him to warm her cold hand when they had first touched. He must guard against that. The brazen chit had dared hesitate before signing the contract, as if she had any more choice than he in the matter.
Here was another Felicité, no doubt. How had she learned green was his favourite color? He would have to be careful. He struggled for something to say that would allay his father’s growing displeasure. He forced a smile as he proffered his arm. “Are your chambers to your liking?”
She did not look at him. “Oui.”
As they processed towards the Great Hall, his agitation grew. The rest of his family awaited them. Despite his mother’s sympathy with his reluctance to remarry, she had already welcomed Peridotte upon her arrival at Ellesmere the previous day. “What does it matter if she is an Angevin? Do you believe it was easy for your father to marry a Welshwoman?” she had chided.
“But he loved you. I don’t love this woman, and I never will,” he had retorted.
Her reply had been something about lightning not striking twice in the same place. He winced at the memory, raking a hand through his hair. Marriage to Felicité had indeed been like being struck by lightning.
It came to him that the woman he escorted was trembling. Felicité had never trembled, except perhaps at another’s touch. “Are you cold?”
He cursed under his breath that his determination to ask no personal questions had already faltered. If she said yes, what would he do then?
Christ, he was acting like a lad of four and ten. Her perfume had befuddled him, but at least it wasn’t lavender.
Her fingers tightened briefly on his arm. She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the stone floor.
His mother came into view, smiling broadly, her arms extended in greeting. She had been his rock during the nightmare of his marriage. He might have lost his wits were it not for her love and support. He had sobbed in her arms like a baby.
His brother stood beside her. Gallien groaned inwardly. Étienne pursued anything in skirts. In the worst moments of his marriage, Gallien had accused his brother of adultery with his wife. To his everlasting shame, he knew now how wrong he had been, but did not doubt for a moment that Étienne would flirt with his betrothed. She was beautiful. From her coloring and the precarious tilt of the veil, he suspected red hair, and lots of it. The notion caused a tingle at the base of his spine. He changed his gait to be rid of it.
Never again would he allow himself to care for a woman. They were not to be trusted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The aroma of food unsettled Peri’s belly. She and her future husband shared a trencher, customary for a newly betrothed couple, and he selected choice pieces of roasted chicken, offering them on the end of h
is eating dagger, as was expected.
But he spoke not a word. No smile lit his face. Only the darkened blue of his eyes betrayed his mood.
She searched for topics of conversation, but found none.
The Earl and his Countess occupied the carved lord and lady’s chairs at the head table. Gallien sat at his father’s right hand. Peri supposed that her presence as the extra person was the reason for their closeness on the padded bench. Her betrothed’s thigh touched hers. The heat emanating from his body made her lightheaded. She pressed her fingers to the hidden sachet, thankful for its aromatic properties.
She had brought a goodly supply of potpourri, but would need to ask the Countess how to procure more. She had learned her future mother-by-marriage was a healer and the castle maintained a Still Room fully stocked with herbs and medicines.
Gallien leaned closer. “You have no need to draw my eye to them. I see you have breasts.”
Anger surged into her throat, threatening to choke her. A pulse beat in her ears. She opened her mouth to retort, but no words came. She squirmed on the bench, wishing she could flee.
He rolled his eyes. “Nor do you need to press your thigh to mine. I am immune to your game.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I play no game, milord. It is you who plays games, toying with me as a cat toys with a mouse.”
To her surprise he frowned. “You are right, milady. Where are my manners? As you have probably sensed, I am not happy with this betrothal.”
“Nor am I,” she whispered.
~~~
Her response did not matter, though it piqued Gallien’s male pride that she did not want to marry him, any more than he wanted her. But he had his reasons—good reasons.
Why would an eligible maiden not want to marry the eldest son of a powerful Earl? Granted he had not been friendly. In fact he had been cruel and rude. This was what Felicité had turned him into—a cold, heartless brute.
“I am a difficult man,” he conceded, drumming his fingers on the table.
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