Hellion

by Bertrice Small

  More praise for HELLION

  “Erotic with a capital E.”

  —Atlanta Journal & Constitution

  “Magnificent … Lush, passionate … Hellion is Bertrice Small at her very best! Once again, [she] proves herself to be the reigning queen of romance.”

  —The Literary Times

  “Hellion is delightfully wicked. The escapades that occur in the d’ Bretagne castle will stay with you long after you’ve finished this thoroughly enjoyable story. Bertrice Small weaves her magic into a basketful of carnal surprises.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  By Bertrice Small

  THE KADIN

  LOVE WILD AND FAIR

  ADORA

  UNCONQUERED

  BELOVED

  ENCHANTRESS MINE

  BLAZE WYNDHAM

  THE SPITFIRE

  A MOMENT IN TIME

  TO LOVE AGAIN

  The O’Malley Saga

  SKYE O’MALLEY

  ALL THE SWEET TOMORROWS

  A LOVE FOR ALL TIME

  THIS HEART OF MINE

  LOST LOVE FOUND

  WILD JASMINE

  Skye’s Legacy

  DARLING JASMINE

  BEDAZZLED

  BESIEGED

  INTRIGUED

  JUST BEYOND TOMORROW

  VIXENS

  The Friar’s Gate Inheritance

  ROSAMUND

  UNTIL YOU

  PHILIPPA

  THE LAST HEIRESS

  The World of Hetar

  LARA

  A DISTANT TOMORROW

  THE TWILIGHT LORD

  THE SORCERESS OF BELMAIR

  The Border Chronicles

  A DANGEROUS LOVE

  THE BORDER LORD’S BRIDE

  THE CAPTIVE HEART

  LOVE, REMEMBER ME

  THE LOVE SLAVE

  HELLION

  BETRAYED

  DECEIVED

  THE INNOCENT

  A MEMORY OF LOVE

  THE DUCHESS

  THE DRAGON LORD’S DAUGHTERS

  PRIVATE PLEASURES

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  A Fawcett Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 1996 by Bertrice Small

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  FAWCETT is a registered trademark and the Fawcett colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79488-8

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For my best friend on the East End,

  Andrea Aurichio

  What would I do without you, babe?

  Prologue

  ENGLAND

  August 1100

  King William Rufus held his Easter court at Winchester. At Pentecost he was in Westminster. At that time, a village in Berkshire reported blood welling from the earth, and many who claimed to have seen it attested to it. When word of the phenomenon was brought to the king, he laughed.

  “These English,” he said. “They are such a superstitious lot.”

  The priests shook their heads glumly and muttered amongst themselves. The king was a most ungodly man who lacked respect for portents and all things holy. He would surely meet a bad end, and his wicked companions with him. But those who knew William Rufus best appreciated that while he might be a harsh man with little patience for those whose beliefs were rooted in ignorance or fear, he was fair with those who served him honestly.

  The fat season for red stags began August first, and William Rufus was at his hunting lodge in the New Forest with several companions and his youngest brother, Henry. Many were surprised that Henry Beauclerc—so called because of all the Conqueror’s sons, he was best educated—was so friendly with the king, for William Rufus’s heir was not Henry, but rather their eldest brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy. Still, the prince seemed to hold no grudge, which was unusual in an age that lived by conquest.

  On the second day of August the hunt was scheduled to begin at dawn, as was customary, but early that morning a foreign monk spoke with the king’s friend, Robert fitzHaimo, telling him of a warning vision he had had in the night. The king agreed not to hunt that morning, although he did not fear the monk’s vision. He was dyspeptic, having eaten and drunk far too much the night before.

  “I am so filled with an ill wind,” he mocked himself, “that the deer would hear me coming from a great distance and hide; but we’ll hunt this afternoon.”

  So after the midday meal William Rufus and his companions went into the deep forest to stalk deer. Finding a spot near a stream with the well-muddied tracks of beasts all about, the king dismounted, waiting silently in the bushes for a stag to come to drink. He knew that his companion, Walter Tirel, was nearby. The other hunters had scattered, as was the accepted routine in such a hunt.

  Suddenly, without warning, an arrow flew through the air and buried itself in William Rufus’s chest. Astounded, the king grasped at the arrow, stumbling noisily into the clearing by the stream. He had heard no one, but then his eyes met those of his assailant. A face stared from the foliage. The king smiled, recognizing the face. His look was one of admiration, almost approval. Then he fell facedown in the mud as death reached out to claim him.

  The greenery didn’t even rustle as William Rufus’s assassin slipped away. Walter Tirel entered the clearing, looking about him. Seeing the king, he raised a mighty shout of alarm. Within moments the place was filled with the king’s other companions, including Henry Beauclerc, open-mouthed and astounded by the scene that greeted them.

  “Mon Dieu, Walter! You have killed the king!” Robert de Montfort said for all to hear.

  “Non! Non!” Tirel replied. “Not I my lord! The king was dead when I arrived. We were together, but he hurried on ahead of me. I found him so. I swear it!”

  “It was an accident, I am certain,” Robert fitzHaimo said. “You are known for an honorable man, Walter, and had no cause to kill the king.”

  “Is this place cursed?” de Montfort wondered aloud. “The king’s brother, Richard, was killed all those years ago in a similar accident, and last spring his own nephew died the same way. A hunting accident.”

  “It was not my arrow that killed the king,” Walter Tirel said doggedly.

  “Yet it must be your arrow,” de Montfort said, bending down. “See, it is one of the two the king gave you himself this day. Do you not remember, Tirel? A blacksmith came with six arrows before we left this afternoon. The king praised the smithy’s craftsmanship. He kept four of the arrows for himself, and gave you two. You do not have two now, do you?”

  “I shot one earlier,” Tirel insisted. “You yourself were there when I shot at that first stag from a-horse. I missed the beast and could not find the arrow. Do you not remember?”

  “It is an accident,” fitzHaimo said soothingly. “A tragic accident. There is no blame to assign. Perhaps, though, it would be best if you returned to your lands in France, my lord. Poix, isn’t it? There will be some who are hotheaded enough to seek revenge for this unfortunate incident. To horse, my lord, and do not look back!”

  Walter Tirel, Count of Poix, did not need to be encouraged twice. He was n
ot so stupid that he did not realize something was amiss. However, he did not wish to take the blame for something he had not done. Mounting his horse, he galloped off, not bothering to stop at the royal lodge, but heading straight for the coast and the first boat he could find to take him to France.

  “The king is dead,” Robert de Montfort said softly.

  “Long live the king,” fitzHaimo replied solemnly.

  William Rufus was buried the following day, a Friday. On Sunday, the fifth day of August, his brother Henry—who had not even waited to bury his sibling, but instead hurried to Winchester to secure the royal treasury—was crowned at Westminster, despite his father’s wishes that Robert succeed Rufus. Henry, the youngest of the Conqueror’s sons, based his claim on the fact that he was the only one to have been born in England.

  “I am,” he boldly told the barons, “the only legitimate heir of the king of England, for my father was England’s king when I was born, and my own birth took place at Selby in Yorkshire. My brother, Duke Robert, was born while my father was Normandy’s duke.”

  King Henry promised to correct all the abuses of the previous monarch, but his eyes were on Normandy, the duchy belonging to his eldest brother, Robert, who was on crusade. To this end he sent out to all the landowners in England, demanding their fealty. Henry needed to know England was completely loyal when he went to reunite his father’s original holding with England. There could be no question of the two territories being separate, and there could be no question that Henry was the rightful king of England, and lord over both places.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: England: August 1100

  Part I: Langston: Winter 1101 Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II: England: Spring 1101–Summer 1103 Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part III: Brittany: Summer 1103–Midsummer 1104 Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part IV: La Citadelle And Langston: Late Summer 1104–Autumn 1106 Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Afterward

  A Note from the Author

  Skye O’Malley

  Part I

  LANGSTON

  Winter 1101

  Chapter 1

  “You must have a wife, Hugh Fauconier,” the king said with a smile. He reached out to take his bride’s hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze. King Henry had been married just a little over a month. While the queen had been chosen for political reasons, he liked her well enough, and she him. They got on quite nicely for two people who had not known one another until the day of their marriage.

  Edith, renamed Matilda to please her husband’s Norman barons, was a very pretty young woman, with her mother’s dark red hair and gray-blue eyes. And like her mother, she was a devout young woman. She had planned to enter a convent until Henry, seeking to secure his northern border while he sought to conquer Normandy, asked the Scots king for his sister’s hand in marriage. The bride was quickly sent south, for the Scots king never knew when he might need the military strength of his English brother-in-law. The fact that Edith/Matilda was also a direct descendant of the last Anglo-Saxon rulers did not go unremarked.

  Those near the king turned now to look at the object of his attention. Hugh Fauconier, knight, was a Saxon. He had known the king almost his entire life. “I should enjoy a wife if she would bring me as much joy as the queen has obviously brought you,” he replied graciously, “but, alas, my liege, I have not the means to support a wife, nor lands on which to settle her.”

  “You do now,” Henry replied with a small smile. “I am returning Langston to you, Hugh. What think you of that?”

  “Langston?” He was astounded. All his life Langston had been but a dream. Langston was his father’s ancestral home, but he had never known his father, who, with his grandfather and two uncles, had died at Hastings. Upon hearing the news of the battle, his mother had, with incredible foresight, packed up the family’s valuables and fled west with her servants across England to her father’s home. Hugh had been born seven and a half months later. After his mother’s death, his maternal grandmother, a Norman lady distantly related to the Conqueror, had raised him. Langston had been given to a Norman knight loyal to King William.

  “Circumstances have changed since my father’s time,” King Henry said softly. “Come and see me privately after the meal, Hugh. I will explain all to you then, my friend.”

  The court was at Westminster celebrating the Christmas season. While the queen’s presence had brought women back into the royal circle, it was a subdued time, for the king was still in mourning for his brother, William Rufus. Then, too, there was the very distinct possibility that Duke Robert of Normandy would, come spring, attempt to overthrow his younger brother’s rule in England.

  Caught between his two brothers, one a duke of Normandy and the other a king of England, Henry had struggled his whole life to please them both. It had not been an easy task, and in the end his elder siblings had signed wills making the other his heir should he die without issue; and thus cutting off the younger Henry.

  Then Pope Urban II had preached a call for a crusade to free Jerusalem from the Saracens. Duke Robert, tired of the factional fighting in his duchy and in the neighboring states about him, and longing desperately for a little adventure, had answered the pope’s call. First, however, he’d had to mortgage Normandy to his brother, William Rufus, so he would have the silver to mount such a glorious expedition. The term of the loan was three years. At the end of that time, Duke Robert would repay King William Rufus and reclaim his lands. Robert had been on his way home from the first crusade covered slightly in glory, traveling with a new bride, Sibylle, the daughter of Geoffrey of Conversano, Lord of Brindisi, a nephew of King Roger of Sicily, when William Rufus had been killed in the New Forest, and Henry, the youngest of William the Conqueror’s sons, had moved quickly to secure the treasury and have himself crowned King of England.

  The barons, whatever their reasons, had not rebelled. Most believed Henry a stronger man than his eldest sibling. With Duke Robert’s return, however, there was apt to be a war. The king needed all the friends he could get, for many of his lords held lands in both England and Normandy. Their loyalty would be decided based upon which of the Conqueror’s sons they considered likely to win such a conflict.

  Hugh Fauconier sat himself down upon a bench, still stunned by the king’s words. Langston! He was to have Langston back. How pleased his grandparents would be. He wished his mother had lived to see this day, but she had died almost immediately after his birth.

  “You lucky devil!” His friend, Rolf de Briard, poked him with a finger. “What did you do to deserve such good fortune, Hugh? It cannot be just because you raise the finest hunting birds in all of England.” Rolf raised his cup to his tablemate, then drank down a healthy gulp of wine. “How big is the estate?”

  Hugh shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea, Rolf. I’ve never even seen it. I’m not even certain exactly where it is, except that it is in East Anglia. My grandmother, Emma, always spoke of its beauty. She saw it once, when my mother was married to my father.”

  “So the king could be gifting you with something totally worthless,” Rolf considered. “What happened to the lord to whom it was given after Hastings? Is the land tillable? Is there a dwelling? How many serfs and freedmen? There is a great deal to know.”

  “And I’ll know none of it until the king decides to tell me.” Hugh laughed, his equilibrium returning in light of Rolf’s good, practical common sense. “Will you come with me when I go to Langsto
n?”

  “Aye!” Rolf responded enthusiastically. He had come to court to make his fortune, and he was bored. Hugh’s offer held the promise of adventure.

  When the meal was over, and the musicians played softly, Hugh Fauconier arose from the trestle table where he had been sitting and moved to a spot below the high board, where the king might see him. He stood silently and patiently until finally the king’s page came to lead him to a small, windowless room furnished by two chairs and a table.

  “You are to wait here, Sir Hugh,” the lad said, and then departed.

  Hugh did not know whether he should sit or not, and decided to stand until the king came and invited him to seat himself. He paced the little room nervously. Then suddenly the door was opened and King Henry entered, the page coming behind him with wine and two goblets.

  “Sit down, Sir Hugh,” the king said jovially. “Wine for us both, my lad,” he instructed the young page, who swiftly complied, then exited the room, leaving the men to their privacy. The king raised his goblet. “To Langston,” he said.

  “Langston,” Hugh Fauconier said, echoing the king’s toast.

  Henry quaffed half the goblet, then spoke. “Langston was given to Robert de Manneville after my father came to England. He was barely more than a boy, but he saved my father’s life on the battlefield. My father, as you know, was a man who knew how to reward both loyalty and bravery. He was impressed by de Manneville’s dogged loyalty.

  “De Manneville had a little estate in Normandy, unlike some who had come with my father to England. He married, had two sons, was widowed, married again, had a daughter. Several years ago he decided to follow my brother, Duke Robert, on crusade. His eldest son went with him. The younger remained on the estate in Normandy. The daughter, who was born here in England, has always lived at Langston with her mother.”

  The king paused a moment to take another drink of wine, then continued. “Sir Robert and his son, Sir William, were both killed at a battle called Ascalon, some seventeen months ago. The younger son, Richard, was so informed, and married almost immediately. Sir Robert had made out a will before he departed that named William as his heir, and Richard, should William not survive. His English lands, however, he entailed upon his daughter, Isabelle. The girl is fifteen, I am informed.