FATAL TRUTHS
BY
ANNA MARKLAND
©COPYRIGHT ANNA MARKLAND 2014
Cover Art by Steven Novak
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2014 by Anna Markland
ISBN 978-1-927619-26-1
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.
Dedication
For my Elaine, with love.
What Readers Are Saying
“This story is as satisfying as an imagined goblet of Montbryce apple brandy. I loved all the tie-in's to the previous tomes. Caedmon and Ronan were so special that it is a treasure to have them referred to with such reverence...and to revisit Robert's incarceration, even after his death, to bring his family into harmony, well it certainly would have pleased all the forebears. I loved the addition of the canine hero. I'm very greedy when it comes to this family. Ms. Markland must be getting accustomed to all the plaudits coming her way...but she is a most gifted writer and I will read whatever she publishes until these eyes fail and then look for them in Braille.” Karen W.
Dear Reader,
This book is the latest in a long series, but can be read as a stand-alone story. If my heroes and heroines had revealed their histories to me in chronological order, it would have made life much easier for you! If you want to know more about the family you will meet in this book and prefer to read sagas in chronological order, here’s a handy list.
Conquering Passion—Ram and Mabelle, Rhodri and Rhonwen
If Love Dares Enough—Hugh and Devona, Antoine and Sybilla
Defiant Passion-Rhodri and Rhonwen
A Man of Value—Caedmon and Agneta
Dark Irish Knight—Ronan and Rhoni
Haunted Knights—Adam and Rosamunda, Denis and Paulina
Passion in the Blood—Robert and Dorianne, Baudoin and Carys
Dark and Bright—Rhys and Annalise
The Winds of the Heavens—Rhun and Glain, Rhydderch and Isolda
Dance of Love—Izzy and Farah
Carried Away—Blythe and Dieter
Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan and Nolana
Wild Viking Princess—Ragna and Reider
Hearts and Crowns—Gallien and Peridotte
Fatal Truths—Alexandre and Elayne
MINI MENU
Start Reading
Dedication
Suggested Reading Sequence
Other books by Anna
Copyright
Get to know Anna
Family Tree
Table of Contents
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
MINI MENU
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
FAMILY TREE
MORE ANNA MARKLAND
FROM THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
Montbryce Castle, Normandie, August 1136 AD
“THE PRISONERS ARE HERE, milord Comte.”
The crowd gathered in the cavernous Great Hall of Montbryce Castle gradually quieted as Steward Bonhomme awaited his master’s response.
Alexandre de Montbryce shifted his weight in the lord’s chair, the drumming of his fingernails on the elaborately carved arms the only sound in the immense chamber.
“They are hostages, Bonhomme, not prisoners,” he said with more belligerence than he intended. His rebuke echoed off the stone columns, disappearing into the rafters.
Seated at Alex’s right hand, his younger brother, Romain, sucked in a breath, scratching his head.
Were it possible, Alex would cede his title to Romain. Being the Comte de Montbryce, leader of one of the wealthiest and most powerful Norman clans with extensive holdings in England and Normandie was a responsibility he’d never wanted. But their father would turn over in his tomb if Alex denied his heritage.
He’d done what he could by insisting Romain share the decisions and responsibilities. His brother would become the next Comte de Montbryce, though he wasn’t happy about it. They’d argued many times over Alex’s insistence he would never marry. He could only hope the philandering Romain would settle down and wed a suitable bride before the day of Alex’s death dawned.
He found it incredible that siblings who shared a strong resemblance could be so different in temperament.
Hands fisted at his sides, Bonhomme reddened, visibly embarrassed by the unusual criticism from his Master. He bowed again. “Your pardon, milord.”
Alex wished he could take back the harsh words. The Montbryces were known as a noble and honorable family who treated their serfs and servants well. Successive Bonhommes had served them for four generations. But his resentment refused to release him. “Fetch them,” he commanded.
He turned to Romain as Bonhomme left the Hall, the wide oaken doors banging closed behind him. “Montbryce Castle will not serve as a prison as long as I am Comte.”
“I understand, Alex. However, was it necessary to embarrass Bonhomme in front of others?”
He stared up at the banners wafting in the rafters, many of which had hung there since his grandmother had plied her needle to fashion them.
The aroma of smoked ham served earlier at the midday luncheon still hung in the air, though the tables and benches had been cleared away and the stone floor swept.
He wished he’d been there, nigh on three score and ten years ago, when his great grandfather had entertained Duke William of Normandie a few months before his great victory at Hastings. It was in this historic place that the future Conqueror had appointed Alex’s grandfather to supervise the preparation of the fleet that would sail to England.
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Alex had known no other home but this impressive castle, deserving of its reputation as one of the finest in Normandie. He loved every time-worn stone and was adamant it would not be used as a prison in furtherance of the political ambitions of a would-be Queen.
Though Romain was right about his harsh words to Bonhomme, the thought of unjustly depriving anyone of their freedom, especially a child, knotted Alex’s gut. Every son and daughter of the recently departed Robert de Montbryce understood and shared Alex’s turmoil. Many years ago, against all odds, their father had survived a cruel solitary confinement at the hands of the Duke of Normandie. Alex had come into the world during his father’s captivity.
He dragged his thoughts back from the memories of his early years with a father struggling to recover from his ordeal—a father he feared and barely knew. “I’ll speak to Bonhomme later. He’ll understand. Remind me, what are the hostages’ names?”
Romain rolled his eyes. “Henry and Claricia.”
Both doors to the Hall creaked open. Bonhomme ushered in the hostages, grandchildren of King David of Scotland. They’d been handed over to Comte Geoffrey of Anjou and his wife, the former Holy Roman Empress Maud as a token of good faith to guarantee David’s support. Maud had requested they be kept at Montbryce.
Alex had known they were children, but hadn’t expected a boy and a girl so alike in appearance they could be twins.
A murmur of delight rippled through the Hall at the sight of the fair-haired enfants, but it ceased gradually as the clink and drag of chains echoed off the stone floor. Alex had been led to believe the hostages were at least fifteen years of age. Henry and Claricia Dunkeld couldn’t be more than seven or eight. They’d been chained together, wrists manacled, ankles shackled.
Anger surged up his throat. He leapt to his feet. “Why in the name of all the saints are they in irons? Remove their bonds at once.”
Murmurs of agreement with his fury rippled through the crowd of onlookers.
A soldier wearing the devise of Comte Geoffrey shuffled forward, a large key in hand. Alex struggled to control the urge to strangle him with his bare hands as the chains clunked to the floor and the man gathered them up. “How long have these children been manacled?”
“Only since they arrived in your land, milord.”
Caught off guard by the undisguised resentment in the speaker’s words, he glanced up sharply and for the first time noticed the young woman who now gripped the hand of each twin. Though her head was covered with a chequered shawl of brown and grey, curls of flame-red hair framed her face. Freckles dotted her nose. High cheekbones and a proud chin added nobility to a woman in servant’s garb. Her fresh beauty stunned him. He’d never journeyed to Scotland, but easily conjured a vision of her galloping across wild moorlands on a white horse, her hair a ribbon of red whipped by the wind.
She stared at him defiantly for long moments, rendering him speechless, though he doubted she would reach his shoulder if they stood side by side. Inexplicably, that was an appealing notion.
At her nod the royal infants made their bow to Alex. It was a commendable effort considering their age and condition, though the woman kept hold of their hands, providing an anchor. They flushed at the barely discernible smile she bestowed when they glanced up for her approval.
Alex had a peculiar urge to bask in the glow of her smile, but it quickly disappeared when she looked back at him. Though he understood it, he was strangely distressed by the hatred evident in her gaze. She was nursemaid to hostages and thus deprived of freedom. Geoffrey had cruelly ordered her small charges manacled for some ridiculous reason. She was far from her homeland, and probably not by choice. She was a servant—yet hadn’t offered the courtesy of a bow.
Alex had long ago accepted he was destined to live a solitary life. He’d always been the odd one out in the family. He and his father had never been close. It was as if Robert de Montbryce’s forced absence at Alex’s birth formed an invisible wall between them. It had taken months for Robert to regain his strength. Their mother had worried that her husband might never be the man he was before his imprisonment. As a child Alex learned to be wary of his father’s sudden changes of mood, but he never understood why his sire felt guilty about the time they’d lost.
Now Robert de Montbryce’s body lay alongside his beloved Dorianne in the castle’s crypt. The intrigues surrounding the struggle for the throne following King Henry’s death in December in the year of Our Lord Eleven Hundred and Thirty five had been too much for his health, already weakened by a racking cough.
Resentful of the constant tutelage when his father was alive, Alex was grateful now for the knowledge and guidance passed on to him. Though he and his brothers disagreed about who should now sit on the throne of the English, he always assured them of his intention to emulate the three generations of his ancestors who had fulfilled the job with honor and dignity.
But he had refused to bow to the insistence he marry, and now it was too late. At a score and twelve years of age, he had become used to his bachelor life.
He had remained celibate throughout the half year of intrigue and conflict that had swept Normandie as King Stephen and Empress Maud vied for the throne of England after King Henry’s death. It hadn’t been a hardship.
Now, astonishingly, a discourteous servant in drab clothing, albeit a stunningly beautiful redhead, had caused his body to respond in a way he’d not experienced in many a year.
She was a servant, who, seemingly without much effort, had taken control of this gathering that should have seen her quaking with fear.
He stepped down from the dais, glad he’d worn a long tunic this day. By rights he should reprimand the woman for her lack of courtesy, but the defiance in her green eyes gave him pause. Perhaps in Scotland a nursemaid was given more leeway.
He nodded to Henry Dunkeld. The lad was after all a possible heir to the Scottish throne. “Welcome to you, Henry, and to your sister. I am Comte Alexandre de Montbryce.”
He turned to Romain, now standing at his side. “I present my brother, Romain de Montbryce.”
“Mes seigneurs,” Henry murmured, his eyes fixed on the stone floor. Claricia gazed from Alex to Romain and back, tears welling, her free hand twisted in the fabric of her dress.
He was confident the nursemaid would not be fluent in his language, though her initial outburst had been in Norman French. Nervous the children might catch what he was saying, he shielded his mouth with his hand as he turned to Romain. “For an infant to be taken from her home and her parents and brought as a hostage in chains to a faraway land is intolerable. No wonder the nursemaid is angry.”
Romain stroked his chin, a bemused look on his face. “Angry, but beautiful.”
Alex glared, irrational jealousy of his brother seething in his gut. Though they were sometimes mistaken for twins because of their appearance, women were drawn to Romain’s cheerfulness and charm. “Not with a foreign hostage, brother.”
Romain winked, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes. “Pity, but I’ll heed your wishes.”
He and his brother were tall and must seem like giants looming over these two infants. Alex hunkered down next to Claricia, which only increased the turmoil at his groin. “Demoiselle, please introduce your nursemaid.”
The child stared at him, her chin quivering, leading him to think perhaps she didn’t speak his language. He stood, concerned his attempt at closeness had intimidated her.
The nursemaid bent to whisper something to the child in a language he supposed was Gaelic. The shawl slipped off her head, revealing a glorious cascade of thick red hair. His breath caught in his throat.
The woman quickly covered her head, her blush the first chink in the armored mantle of composure.
Alex licked his dry lips, wishing he could apply his tongue to the nipples that pouted against the thin fabric of her bliaut as she raised her arms to secure the shawl. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Suddenly all he could think of was taking her to his bed.
Claricia murmured, “Mon seigneur, I present my nursemaid—” She looked imploringly at the woman holding her hand.
The nursemaid stepped forward. “My name is Elayne, milord de Montbryce.”
She spoke again in flawless Norman French. Alex stared open mouthed, the sultry disdain in her voice echoing to his core.
She stiffened her spine, eyes flashing defiance. “The prince and princess have had a long journey. May I take them to their chambers? And perhaps a salve could be fetched for the lacerations on their wrists.”
Alex dragged his eyes from her full breasts to her face. The gall of the woman, reminding him of his obligation as their host. “I am their guardian now, Mistress Elayne. You need not instruct me as to my responsibilities.”
She stared back. “Guardian, or jailer,” she muttered.
She’d spoken softly, yet it was evident from the indrawn breaths around him, she’d been heard. Anxious faces awaited his reaction.
Romain’s loud cough slowed his headlong rush to reprimand the woman again. He clenched his fists in an effort to slow his breathing. Her lack of deference had done nothing to discourage his arousal. He summoned Bonhomme. “Show our guests to their chambers.”
Romain stepped forward. “I’ll accompany them.”
Elayne thrust her chin in the air, picked up Claricia and followed Romain and Bonhomme, Henry in tow.
Low murmurs of conversation began again.
At the door, Claricia lifted her head from the nursemaid’s shoulder and curled her little fingers into a wave of farewell, smiling at Alex. A soul deep longing pierced his heart, a pain he’d long since thought dead and buried—a yearning for a child of his own.
~~~
ELAYNE DUNKELD FUMED INWARDLY, but held her tongue as she and the children were ushered into the opulent chamber assigned to them, surprised not to hear a key turn in the lock when they were left alone.
Tears threatened as she sat Claricia on the bed, tossing her playd onto a chair. The warmth of the familiar woolen garment had strengthened her during the interview with the Comte. It was a link with her homeland. She combed her fingers through her hair, stifling the urge to scream out loud.
Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Page 1
