“What’s wrong, maman?” Henry asked, clamping his arms around her thighs, his head on her belly.
Elayne blinked away her tears. She had to be strong for her children’s sake. She stroked her son’s blonde hair, thankful for once that he and Claricia had inherited their father’s coloring, then lifted him to sit on the high bed. Sitting between her twins, she hugged them to her, finding solace in their warmth. “You cannot call me that, Henry, mo mhac. Both of you must remember. It’s a game. If all is to go well here, no one must know I am your maman. Always call me Elayne.”
“Oui, maman,” they chorused.
No use reprimanding them. They were babes, and bone tired. It had broken her heart to see them in chains. Was she expecting too much? But much had been expected of her. “Your grandpapa Dabíd explained to you why we have been sent here.”
Henry nodded as she pulled off his boots. “We’re stages.”
“Hostages,” she corrected. “Do you remember why?”
Claricia yawned. “Grandpapa was angry with Queen Maud.”
Henry shrugged away from his mother when she tried to help him with his doublet. “I can do it. Grandpapa said we have to be ind—indep—”
“Independent,” Elayne supplied. “Good. I’ll help Claricia while you prepare for bed. Perhaps the servants have put your nightshirt in the armoire.”
Henry wandered over to the armoire, naked in the warm chamber. Elayne smiled wistfully, thinking of the future when her son would be a man—no longer comfortable strutting bare-arsed in front of his mother and sister. She prayed they would all live long enough to see that day.
“I ‘member,” Claricia said, content to let her mother undress her. “Grandpapa was angry ‘cos Queen Maud ‘manded stages even though he promised to help her.”
Henry came back to the bed tugging his nightshirt over his head. “So we’re playing this trick to help Grandpapa.”
Out of the mouths of babes. It was a cruel irony that her father-by-marriage, the great King Dabíd mac Choluim had been only too anxious to consign his bastard’s children to Normandie.
She’d objected. “Henry and Claricia are all I have now Dugald is dead. I know he was your illegitimate son, but—”
The King of the Scots had been adamant, thumping his fist on the arm of his throne. “I refuse to send my heirs. Let the Norman Empress think she holds my legitimate grandchildren. Despite her arrogance, I’ll keep my oath to divert King Stephen’s attention by invading Northumbria again when she lands with her army in England.
“She’s lucky I still support her claim to the throne of England. I do so only out of loyalty to her father, Henry. He sheltered me when I had to flee Scotland as a youth.”
He’d gone off on the usual diatribe about his days at Henry’s court, driven into exile when his uncle, Domnall, usurped the throne on the death of Dabíd’s parents.
Finally Elayne’s tears and weeping seemed to touch the king’s cold heart. “Go with them if you must, but not as their mother. Maud knows full well my son’s wife died in childbirth.
“It won’t be so bad. Maud has chosen the Montbryce family as your hosts. They are honorable Normans. You and your children will be treated kindly.”
Despite his reassurances, Elayne had feared they would be housed in a cell, especially after the chains. She breathed a long held sigh of relief as her eye traveled over the rich tapestries, fine furniture, and warm rugs that graced the chamber they’d been allotted. A hearty fire blazed in the grate.
She heard a light tapping at the door. A fresh-faced young woman carrying a tray peeked into the chamber, entering when Elayne nodded.
The girl didn’t bow, and Elayne reminded herself this servant believed she was also a servant. However, the friendly smile warmed her.
“I’m Micheline. I’m to help watch over the prince and princess. Cook sent food and the healer a salve.”
Elayne frowned, chewing her lip. Micheline didn’t look like a spy, but she supposed the Comte wanted the castle servants to keep an eye on them. And it was thoughtful of the cook to spare the tired children the long drawn out evening meal in the Hall.
She removed the top from the jar of ointment and inhaled.
Spikenard—costly.
Her opinion of Montbryce and his castle improved a smidgeon. She smoothed the pleasant smelling balm on the children’s sore wrists and ankles, then directed them to the small wooden table and chairs in one corner, where Micheline had placed the food.
The girl seemed nervous. “I’m sorry there isn’t enough for you, Elayne. Cook insisted servants must eat in the Hall.”
Elayne nodded, though it was a blow to her pride, and her empty belly. She could give this serving girl no reason to be curious. “I understand.”
Perhaps her suspicions were unfounded. Only time would tell. She would have to be wary. Alexandre de Montbryce had impressed her as a man of honor, if quick to take offense. She wondered what went on behind those piercing blue eyes. Was he married? Such a well-muscled, attractive man must have had many women to choose from. There had been no comtesse present at the interview.
He seemed old to be unmarried. Perhaps he was a widower. If he had sons and daughters, they might be playmates for Henry and Claricia.
What did it matter? She had more important things to worry about.
The food from the Montbryce kitchens was of the finest quality. Henry and Claricia wolfed down the roasted chicken she cut up for them. They even ate the carrots—a miracle. Her belly growled, but she would not take food from her children’s plates, especially in front of the watchful Micheline.
After supper, she tucked the children into bed, thankful for clean, vermin-free linens. They fell asleep before she reached the end of their favorite lullaby. The familiar song helped soothe her too.
Gu robh neart na cruinne leat, 'S neart na grèine.
“May you indeed have the strength of the universe, and the strength of the sun, my angels.”
Micheline smiled at the sleeping infants. “You have a beautiful voice, Elayne.”
She had always found solace in singing, especially to her children. She smiled her thanks to Micheline, the knot inside her easing.
But her hunger and thirst grew. She had to keep up her strength if they were to survive this ordeal. Going without food would only weaken her.
“Milord Comte will expect you in the Hall,” Micheline reminded.
Common sense won out. If filling her belly meant tolerating the Comte’s unsettling gaze, she would do it.
“You’ll stay a while longer, Micheline, until I return from the Hall? I must admit I am hungry.”
Micheline squeezed her arm. “Oui, go. All is well here. They are safe with me. I have eight brothers and sisters, all younger than me.”
In the Hall Elayne tagged onto the end of a line of servants queuing at a series of large wooden trestle tables. She spooned a piece of roasted chicken and a few carrots onto a black bread trencher and helped herself to a tumbler of watered ale.
She’d never eaten with servants and peasants. Was there a protocol, or hierarchy of seating among the castle folk at Montbryce? There was in Scotland.
With no one to guide her, she took the first seat at an empty bench far from the dais, relieved the bread trencher hadn’t slipped from her trembling hand, and most of the ale was still in the tumbler.
She looked up nervously, dismayed to see the Comte’s eyes fixed on her. It was unnerving. Uncomfortable under his insistent gaze, she regretted coming to the Hall. Why was he staring? Did he suspect her subterfuge?
She let her eyes wander into the rafters where banners wafted in the warm air. She’d been too nervous to notice anything during the first interview with the Comte.
It was a large Hall, richly decorated with fine tapestries, and trophies of war and the hunt. Clean rushes softened the stone floor. Delicious aromas filled the air, a pleasant change from the stench of rancid food and rat droppings that tended to permeate King Dabíd’s
Great Hall when the castle’s dogs and cats failed to scavenge all the scraps.
If ever she had a castle of her own—
But that was wishful thinking. Her husband’s untimely and senseless death had placed her in a precarious position as the widow of the king’s bastard son. Only the existence of her children had prevented her being cast out. If they made it back to Scotland alive, the King would likely betroth her to some old man. Younger clansmen seeking a wife didn’t want a widow with children.
Her father-by-marriage had told her the Montbryces were a wealthy family with a long and glorious history of military prowess who controlled vast lands in Normandie and England. They had always enjoyed the favor of the reigning monarch, an enviable feat in the morass of Anglo-Norman politics. He’d hinted at some terrible misfortune that had at one time befallen the previous Comte, Alexandre’s father, but didn’t elaborate.
Elayne ate her chicken quickly, nervous at leaving her children alone with a stranger in a foreign land. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
The other servants of the household eyed her as if she had two heads. Evidently no one at Montbryce wore a playd.
It seemed strange to be seated with servants, though none had come to sit beside her. She was careful to eat like a peasant, though using her hands instead of utensils seemed uncouth. She licked her greasy fingers, having no napkin. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the Comte’s brother drain his tumbler of wine. She licked her lips, thirsting for a taste, but she’d have to make do with the watered ale.
~~~
“OUR COUSIN, THE EARL OF ELLESMERE, WON’T BE PLEASED,” Romain observed, his mouth full of roasted chicken.
Alex pushed away his trencher, wiping his mouth with a napkin, his attention on the red-haired nursemaid seated alone at a servants’ table. “Gallien is already aware of our hostages, and you’re right—he isn’t happy about it.”
Romain eyed the chicken Alex had left untouched. “To be expected, I suppose. He’s been a supporter of King Stephen from the outset.”
Alex shoved his food to his brother, then lounged back in the lord’s chair, wondering where the Scottish children were. “Stephen is King of the English only thanks to an accident of geography. When Henry died, he happened to be the closest to England and was able to cross the Narrow Sea and take the throne quickly.”
Romain shrugged, skewering the leftover chicken with his eating dagger. “Don’t forget he had help from his brother, Henry, who just happens to be Bishop of Winchester, which is of course the location of the Royal Treasury. Once he had his hands on that, his coronation was a foregone conclusion.”
He bit into the chicken with relish. “You have to admit that much of the fault lies with Maud and Geoffrey. It was short-sighted to isolate themselves in Anjou when they knew her father was ailing. She was aware Stephen would challenge her for the throne.”
Alex stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Well, she’s paid for her lack of foresight, forced to spend the past six months drumming up an army here in Normandie to challenge Stephen. Our father swore an oath to support her claim to the throne, and so we shall.”
Pausing in his chewing, Romain took a long swig of wine. “It’s risky. Now Stephen is King, he has the power to confiscate Norman estates with connections to English families. He might decide Montbryce Castle is such a prize.”
Alex’s emotions were mixed. He wanted Romain to take an interest in the affairs of their extensive holdings, but resented his brother second guessing him. “That’s not likely. Gallien is one of his strongest supporters. I doubt he would want to alienate the English Montbryces.”
“But you have to admit that division on this issue is a source of great concern.”
Alex bristled. “As Comte, I have the right as titular head of the family to demand that all Montbryces follow my lead. Unity is what has helped the family survive and prosper for generations. It’s a daunting possibility that we might find ourselves fighting against our cousins if Maud invades England.”
Romain snickered. “Might as well forget ordering Gallien to comply. He’s tried many times to convince you to switch allegiance to Stephen, and is no doubt haranguing our brother Laurent on the matter at this very moment.”
Alex objected. “Gallien’s father took the oath.”
Romain made a dismissive motion with his hand. “But most in England claim they swore allegiance to Maud under duress from Henry. Our own father was resentful of being coerced into swearing. The English barons don’t believe a woman should be queen in her own right. Many here in Normandie agree, including me.”
Alex drummed his fingers on the table, tired of the never-ending quandary of the succession. He glanced again at the Scottish woman. She was licking chicken grease off her fingers. His mouth fell open. His lungs refused to fill with air. He was filled with an insane desire to hurry to her side and suck her fingers into his mouth.
He decided to send Bonhomme to the nursemaid to enquire of the children.
Romain coughed loudly, jolting him from his reverie. What had they been talking about? “You share Gallien’s opinions, then?”
Romain belched, then thumped his chest with his fist. “He claims Stephen is a better man for the job.”
He laughed out loud, slapping Alex on the back. “Hah! Do you appreciate the humor in what I just said?”
Ignoring his brother, Alex beckoned Bonhomme. “Ask the Scottish woman what has become of the children.”
Romain pouted. “You’re not listening. Maud is a woman. I made a jest when I said—”
Alex clenched his jaw, his eyes on the nursemaid. Elayne was her name. “I heard what you said. Gallien is probably right. Stephen is a more—”
He paused, distracted by the irritated glare Elayne shot at him from across the Hall. She said something in reply to Bonhomme. He wondered if the blush spread to her breasts.
Merde! The woman was getting under his skin. He turned to see Romain grinning at him. “What?”
“You’re taken with the Scot.”
Alex sat up straight, pulling at the cuffs of his doublet. “I am merely wondering what has become of her charges.”
Romain came to his feet, his face a mask of amused disbelief. He threw his napkin into Alex’s lap. “You’re sweating, brother. You’ve been too long without a mistress.”
~~~
ELAYNE’S SPINE STIFFENED when she noticed the Comte summon his Steward. She suspected she was to be reprimanded for leaving the children, but reminded herself to hold on to her temper. A servant would accept a rebuke with humility. She must not betray her noble upbringing.
Bonhomme smiled. “Milord Comte enquires as to the children.”
Elayne gritted her teeth, feeling the heat of the flush that ran rampant across every inch of her skin. She tried unsuccessfully not to glare at the arrogant Alexandre de Montbryce. As if she would neglect her own children. “They are sleeping. I left them with Micheline for just a few moments. I haven’t eaten all day.”
The Steward nodded. “I will convey the good news that they have fallen asleep, which indicates they must feel safe in their chamber. The Comte has no children. He isn’t used to infants in the castle, except when his nieces and nephews visit.” He arched his brows. “He avoids them as much as he can.”
His words dismayed her for some reason she couldn’t fathom. “Does he not like children?”
Bonhomme shook his head. “It’s more an avoidance of his older sisters, Marguerite and Catherine. They tend to be overbearing. All three brothers keep out of their way.”
She glanced at the head table, noticing for the first time the empty chair next to Romain. “Three?”
“Milord Laurent is away at the moment, a guest of Gallien de Montbryce, the Earl of Ellesmere, a cousin in England.”
She surmised Laurent must be the baby brother, younger than Romain who seemed to be the second in command.
The air in the crowded Hall had become stiflingly hot, and she
was perspiring under the brooding gaze of the Comte and the weight of the too-warm playd.
She came to her feet. “I must return to my charges. I thank you for your kindness, Steward Bonhomme.”
He looked at her curiously. Had she spoken with too much condescension?
“De rien. It’s nothing. Let me know if there is anything you or the children need.”
She nodded her acknowledgement, bowed to the Comte, her eyes downcast, and left the Hall, Alexandre de Montbryce’s gaze burning into her back.
CHAPTER TWO
“DADAIDH!”
Claricia’s scream jolted Elayne from a fitful sleep. She threw off the linens and leapt out of bed, heart pounding when she couldn’t get her bearings in the unfamiliar chamber. Henry licked his lips and turned over.
The first grey streaks of dawn were stealing in from the narrow window. She stared hard. Claricia stood in the centre of the chamber, crying for her Papa. She scooped her up, cradling her tightly. “Hush, hush, little one. Maman’s here.”
“But I want Dadaidh,” the child wailed.
A cold hand gripped her heart. Her brutish husband had never paid his daughter any mind, yet she lavished love on him. How to reveal the gory truth of her dear Dadaidh’s death?
“Dadaidh is far away. But he’s thinking of us.”
Claricia’s sob caught in her throat as she pressed her head to her mother’s shoulder. “But he didn’t come to say farewell.”
Dugald hadn’t bid any of his family fare-thee-well the day he’d left on an ill-fated raid into the borderlands of Northumbria, against the wishes of his royal father.
The few misbegotten followers who’d accompanied him were too weakened by their own wounds to carry his body home.
Elayne had wept, not for her husband, but for his children. Better a negligent father than no father at all. Belligerent towards his wife, he’d never raised a hand to his son and daughter.
The dire tidings had been kept from Henry and Claricia. They were told only that their Papa had gone on a long journey to the Crusades.
Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Page 2
