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.
Carys longed fo
r 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.
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.
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