He slouched in his official chair, which was noticeably smaller and less ornate than that of his wife seated next to him. He stared at nothing in particular in the Small Hall at Westminster while she rambled on and on about Gallien de Montbryce. Who would have suspected a trivial event would cause such uproar?
He was determined not to look at Maud, just as she stared into nothingness when they made love. Hah! Love had naught to do with what happened in their bedchamber. She barely tolerated his presence, shoving him off and sending him packing as soon as the deed was done. She refused to remove her nightrail in the bedchamber, and made him feel like a bungling lad. It would be a miracle indeed if the dried up prune ever conceived. Indeed, ’twas a miracle he was able to perform his husbandly duties at all. His tarse lost interest at the sight of her. It was akin to bedding his mother.
Too bad the lovely Angevin was obviously in love with her husband. What a touching missive he had received from her. He sighed, chewing a rough fingernail. De Villiers—another Norman—had lied. He should have known better than to trust him.
His resolve to keep his eyes fixed elsewhere wavered when Maud announced she had ordered Montbryce’s release. He was tempted to leap up and strangle her. The imperious bitch intended to make a laughing stock of him. And if he got his hands around the scrawny neck of Ermintrude de Calumette, the smug smile would quickly disappear from her ugly face.
He took several deep breaths and had regained his composure when Maud shot her poisoned arrow.
“It is imperative my father learn nothing of this arrest. The Earl of Ellesmere is en route to see him. You must head him off, apologise, and assure him his son has been released and the charges dropped.”
So—he was to grovel at the feet of a Norman Earl. He rose, bowed to his wife without looking at her, and left the chamber.
If sitting on the throne of England after Henry’s death meant putting up with this foutaise, he would do it. But a day of reckoning would come.
~~~
Devlin rode like a madman, his face frozen into a grimace by the cold wind, determined to push his horse to Tamworth before Maud’s emissary arrived. He had learned from an ostler in the stables that the messenger had left only four hours before. Westminster to Tamworth was a journey of three days, unless the man rode as recklessly as Devlin, who intended to make it there in two.
Predictably, his stump ached with the effort of controlling the horse, but it was imperative he arrive before Montbryce was released. He cursed the earlier, seemingly clever decision to incarcerate his nemesis far from Westminster.
Why had Geoffrey of Anjou told his wife of the arrest? What an idiot. He ought to have known an Angevin would foul things up.
These events called for Montbryce’s removal to another location—one where Devlin could take his time over his revenge. He had at first been reluctant to use his own estate, despite its proximity to Tamworth. The undercroft might prove just the place. His late wife’s old laundry cauldron had been stored away there. It was big enough to boil a cow. Six children produced a lot of soiled garments. His lips curled into a bitter smile when he thought of the possibilities.
~~~
Gallien feared he might go mad with boredom and worry. Something his father had told him about oncle Robert’s imprisonment played on his mind. At first, Robert had assumed the torturers would come, but after days of anxious waiting he had realized that a long solitary confinement was to be his torture.
Gallien dreaded the possibility that he might waste away in this shabby chamber, with no human contact except a guard who brought food. When questioned about the castellan, Marmion, the man gave evasive answers.
Over and over, Gallien paced off the chamber, measured the width and height of the window with his hand span, and counted the number of stones in the hearth, trying to guess where they had been quarried.
Remembering the oft-told tale of his granduncle Hugh rescuing tante Devona by means of a secret passageway, he examined every nook and cranny of the chamber, searching in vain for a lever or some such that might reveal a hidden door.
He plotted several means of escape, including a descent from the window or a slide down the privy shaft, but, even tied together, the linens were inadequate for either venture. The window was too narrow for his bulk in any case.
He might possibly overpower the guard, but at least two more waited outside the door.
His longing for Peri was soul deep. With nothing to do but think, he quickly came to his senses about her perceived betrayal. Peri was a precious jewel, a woman of honor and merit—and she loved him, Gallien the unlovable. He felt Felicité’s hold over him slip away.
But he had exchanged one prison for another. He chafed to be free, to return to his wife and children. His family must be frantic with worry. No doubt his father had already petitioned Henry for his release.
He embarked on his umpteenth measurement of the chamber. The door was suddenly thrust open and in walked the last person he expected to see. An icy hand gripped Gallien’s heart. He strode towards Devlin de Villiers ready to do murder. He reached for his enemy’s throat. “What the devil are you doing here?”
De Villiers smirked, dodging out of reach as two guards rushed into the chamber, seizing Gallien. They forced him to his knees.
Gallien struggled. “I might have known you had something to do with this travesty.”
“Indeed,” de Villiers replied. “It was my pleasure to provide your accommodation here. Tamworth is a wonderful castle, don’t you think? However, I am afraid your comfortable stay has come to an end.”
He waved the guards forward.
Blinding pain arrowed through Gallien’s head as he was struck from behind. He slumped to the stone floor, anguished that he would never have the chance to make amends to his wife.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sweat trickled off the end of Gallien’s nose. He stuck out his tongue, but the meagre drops did nothing to assuage his raging thirst. Pain spread its tentacles through his arms and shoulders and his head throbbed. Giant hands squeezed the air out of his lungs. His heart lurched. He had been stretched on a rack.
But his ankles were not bound. Taking a deep breath, he reached with his feet. The pain eased as he took some of his weight onto his toes, which barely touched a cold stone floor. He was not on a rack, but had been strung up like a hunk of meat for dressing.
He peeled open his eyes. He had been stripped to the waist and his boots removed. Livid bruises darkened his torso and belly. He took a deep breath. A sharp stab of pain hinted at a cracked rib or two. He had a vague memory of being tossed over the back of a horse like a sack of grain. Slowly, he raised his head. His wrists were tied to a rafter.
Wherever he was, it was hotter than Hades. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. It was a cellar of some sort. The source of heat was a smoky fire in a stone grate. Over it stood a blackened cauldron perched on a square iron frame. Steam rose from the vessel. Gallien had seen something similar in the laundry at Ellesmere.
Fear twisted in his bowels. The cauldron did not bode well. Whatever de Villiers had in mind was not good. Would the madman sever a limb? Would it be an eye for an eye?
Had his father spoken to Henry? Was help on the way? But where was he?
He doubted if he was still in Tamworth. De Villiers had obviously finagled his way into Tamworth with the warrant while Marmion was absent, but would never dare torture Gallien there.
He looked up at the beam, flexing his fingers. The rough wood scraped the insides of his wrists and the rope dug into his skin, aggravating the scabs left by the manacles. His prison did not look like a castle dungeon, but rather the cellar of a smaller building, mayhap a manor house.
De Villiers had perhaps brought him bound and gagged to his own estate. If that was the case, he was not far from home.
Home.
He took deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had the courage to face whatever pain his enemy would inflict, but the prospect of
never seeing Peri and his children again was unbearable.
The loud creak of rusted hinges alerted him to the presence of another, though he could see nothing through the billowing steam. He tensed, waiting.
De Villiers loomed out of the mist, his mouth twisted into an evil sneer. “Ah! Milord de Montbryce. I trust everything is to your satisfaction here in my humble home.”
Gallien remained silent. That De Villiers had brought him to his own estate was ominous. Obviously the fiend believed Gallien would never leave alive to tell the tale. He had not come armed, which eased Gallien’s fears a little. Perhaps he would keep his limbs for the moment, but nothing would deter his tormentor from his intent.
Stroking his beard, De Villiers strutted around him slowly. “Not too tight, I hope. The ropes?”
Gallien looked up at the beam. Shards of agony spiralled into his biceps, but he said nothing. He closed his eyes, conjuring a vision of his Welsh grandfather who had died when Gallien was five years old. His mother had passed on to her children much of the Celtic lore Rhodri fervently believed. Gallien called now on Belatucadros to destroy his enemy. Pride in his Welsh blood surged through him. He gritted his teeth, preparing his body and his mind for the torture de Villiers would sooner or later inflict.
The door creaked open again. Gallien vaguely recognized one of the men who had served as his gaolers in Tamworth, a mercenary who would do anyone’s bidding for payment. Beefy fingers clenched on a knout.
This was to be his final humiliation—a scourging, the punishment meted out to serfs and servants, not noblemen.
“You’ll forgive me if I leave your torment to another better able to administer it.” De Villiers thrust his stump under Gallien’s nose. “You see, I am ill equipped to put enough force behind the strokes. However, I will indulge myself by staying to watch.”
He sauntered over to stand closer to the steaming cauldron, beckoning, then pointing to the seething liquid. Gallien was determined not to let his eyes follow. His belly lurched again, but he kept his gaze fixed on his tormentor.
Nose to nose with Gallien, the mercenary grinned. Gallien held his breath, forcing down the bile rising in his throat at the odor from the man’s few remaining teeth, black with decay.
The mercenary slowly stroked each lash of the knout between his thumb and forefinger, gripping the handle tightly in his other fist. It was plain he relished his task. He flicked the knout against Gallien’s thigh, then walked behind him.
De Villiers nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on his prisoner’s face. Gallien flexed his toes against the cold stone and braced his body for the sting of the lash.
He would not count the strokes. There was no point. He doubted if de Villiers had yet decided how many would be administered. The torture would cease either when he was dead or when de Villiers called a halt.
As the lash peeled the skin from his back, he yelled the Montbryce war cry, as his grandfather had done at Hastings. Fide et Virtute! Faith and Valour. He conjured an image of his wife, her face, her smile, her breasts, her sweet, warm, welcoming sheath. He wanted Peri to be his last memory.
“Hold!”
It had been only five strokes, six at most. The plan was evidently to kill him slowly. He twisted, trying to keep some of his weight on his toes, but his calves cramped with the effort.
The silent minutes dragged by. He smelled his own blood. Soon he would have to relieve himself. He hoped he was dead before his bowels emptied.
“Resume!” de Villiers commanded.
Gallien took a deep breath and lifted his toes from the floor. Better to suffocate than to die in his own filth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tandine de Villiers covered her head with her arms in a futile attempt to ward off her husband’s blows. Where he had secreted his children was a mystery to her, but she was at least relieved to have drawn his anger away from them for the moment.
It was not the first time Devlin had struck her. A man was entitled to beat his wife if she transgressed, but Tandine had no notion of what she had done to displease him. He was a man who seemed to be in a permanent state of anger.
She had submitted to his rough handling in their bedchamber, doing things to him and allowing him to do things to her that made her gag.
She had tended his six children, and they had welcomed her attentions. It had quickly become evident Devlin considered his children a burden. They too feared him.
Life had been pleasant while Devlin had been away on some mysterious errand for Geoffrey of Anjou, but now he was back. He had spent a lot of time in the undercroft, forbidding her and the children to venture into that part of the house. Armed men she did not recognize loitered around the grounds.
“My lord, please,” she sobbed. “Tell me what I have done to merit this treatment.”
Devlin raised his hand again, but then grasped her arm and forced her to sit at the small table. He thrust a quill into her trembling hand. “Write what I tell you.”
She dipped the point in the encaustum, wiping off the excess on the lip of the well. Holding the quill poised over the parchment, she prayed the ink would not blot with the trembling of her hand.
“To milady Peridotte de Montbryce—”
Tandine gaped at him.
He raised his hand again. “Write!”
Hastily she scrawled the words, then looked up at him, her throat dry as a desert.
“My dearest friend—”
He paused, waiting for her to finish.
“I bid you come with all possible haste to de Villiers Hall. I have news of your husband. In the interests of his welfare and that of your children, tell no one.”
Tandine’s heart thudded in her ears. What did Devlin know of Gallien de Montbryce and his children? Why did he want Peri de Montbryce to come to their home? Dread rose in her throat. What was going on in the undercroft?
“Sign it, ‘In friendship, Tandine de Villiers.’”
She obeyed, put down the quill, then sat with her hands in her lap, not daring to look at her husband. He made sure the ink was dry and rolled up the parchment. It was not until she heard the key turn in the lock and was sure she was alone that she fell to her knees weeping.
~~~
Baudoin and Étienne de Montbryce rode into the bailey of Tamworth Castle as the sun was going down. It had been a long ride from Milton Keynes where messengers from Geoffrey of Anjou had intercepted them on their way to Westminster.
Geoffrey’s message had been welcome, if surprising. He apologised profusely for any misunderstanding regarding Gallien de Montbryce, laying the blame for the “arrest” squarely on the shoulders of some minion who had been “severely punished”. He assured them Gallien was a merely a guest of Tamworth Castle. They were handed a signed and sealed document confirming Gallien’s freedom.
They had been on the road three days to get to Milton Keynes, and had ridden fast and furious to get to Tamworth in a day and a half. Baudoin was frustrated that they had been close to Tamworth days earlier. They and the Ellesmere men-at-arms were exhausted, as were their mounts.
Marmion’s steward hurried out to meet them, bowing appropriately when they explained who they were. Baudoin handed him the release. “I am here to see my son, Gallien de Montbryce, and to escort him home on the morrow.”
The steward broke the seal, unfurled the document, and perused it, his puzzlement evident on his face. “But he is gone, milord Earl.”
Baudoin fisted his hands, anger robbing him of breath. “What treachery is this? Geoffrey of Anjou assured me he would be here.” A tentative hope flickered to life. “Has he already left for Ellesmere?”
The steward scratched his head, ushering his visitors into the keep. “I hardly know, milord. His gaolers were peculiar, brutish men who spoke little. I only allowed them entry when de Villiers produced the royal warrant.”
Étienne gasped, dread in his eyes. “De Villiers?”
Baudoin struggled to tame the wild creature tearing his heart apart.
“Did my son leave with de Villiers?”
The steward looked nervously from one to the other. “Again, I have no answer. He was in a small chamber that has not been in use for some time. Early this morning a maidservant came to tell me it was unlocked and empty.”
Relief surged through Baudoin that Gallien had not been held in a cell, but now he was in the hands of his arch enemy, having apparently been spirited away during the night. He turned to Étienne. “I can’t recall the name of the place where de Villiers has his hall. It’s near Chasewater.”
Étienne hesitated, frowning. “Norton Canes.”
“How far from here, steward? De Villiers bears my son ill will.”
The man stroked his beard. “Two hours, at a gallop. The route is flat, but it is already dark.”
Baudoin clenched his jaw. “And our mounts are spent.”
“I can spare fresh horses for the two of you, milord, and a half a dozen of the castellan’s men. I’ve a lad from that area who can guide you. Your men will have to follow on the morrow.”
Baudoin slapped the steward on the back. “Good man. A bite to eat while we wait?”
“Indeed, milord. I will show you to the Hall and summon victuals from the kitchens.”
As they followed his lead, Baudoin confided in his son. “I don’t like the idea of riding into de Villiers’ lair without Ellesmere men, but my instinct tells me we must not wait.”
“I agree, papa. I fear Gallien is in grave danger.”
~~~
Alys tiptoed into her mistress’s chamber. Peri’s eyes were closed, but sleep had eluded her since Gallien’s arrest. She had risen before dawn. After visiting her children in the nursery, she had returned listless to her chamber once they were sated and sleepy. It broke her heart to think of Rodrick and Grace growing up without their father. She assumed Geoffrey would have received her letter by now. Had he heard her plea and released Gallien?
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