Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  “You’re beautiful,” he called to her as she smiled at him weakly.

  “My Lord,” cried Bertha, ushering him out, “You shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry. You have a fine healthy son, but your wife needs to rest now. I’ll bring the child to you when we’ve cleaned him up. He too has had a long journey.”

  As Ram was shooed out, the midwife said to Giselle, “Trust the father to turn up as soon as it’s over.”

  The four women laughed, though Mabelle barely had enough strength left to do so, as Myfanwy handed her a steaming bowl of chamomile tea.

  ***

  Ram had ridden hard to get home, soon working up a sweat in the warm August weather. He’d experienced a premonition his child would be born that day. Though exhausted, joy overwhelmed him that he’d been present when his son was born.

  When Berthe appeared with his babe swaddled in warm wrappings to keep out the unavoidable draughts of the castle, he took his heir into his arms and gazed upon him. He could scarcely believe he and Mabelle had created this wondrous being he held. What a wife she’d turned out to be. They would name the boy Robert, after the King’s father and son.

  “Robert de Montbryce,” he murmured, cradling the child, “I’m your father, Rambaud de Montbryce, son of Bernard de Montbryce. It’s to my everlasting sorrow my father didn’t get a chance to see you. What does life hold in store for you? You’re the long awaited heir to a rich Norman heritage. Wherever your travels take you, I hope you’ll always remember that.”

  Ignoring the strident admonitions of the midwife, he strode off with the babe still in his arms, to the chamber where Mabelle lay. The women had moved Mabelle to her bed, and washed her and combed her hair. She was exhausted, but he saw only her radiance. Smiling, she reached out her arms for her child, and he carefully handed Robert to her. She held the child’s face to her breast and he tried to latch on. Ram’s shaft hardened.

  “I was nervous about holding a baby,” he confided with a grin, “But I’m good at it.”

  Mabelle had noticed it too. “You are, Ram.” She smiled at his obvious physical discomfort, brought on by her suckling the child. “In many noble families the father never touches the babes. I know only too well how a child needs a father’s love.”

  ***

  By February of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Three, Mabelle had conceived again over the previous Yuletide. As the time for the birth approached, she liked to sit by the window with her ladies, sewing busily, looking up from her work to see the fields in lambing-time, and watch the shepherds in rough sheepskin clothes drive the sheep into enclosures.

  Soon I’ll have another little lamb of my own.

  She liked being a mother. Robert was a strong, healthy lad. Everyone who saw him admired his dark hair and blue eyes, and commented on his resemblance to his father. She wondered what her next child would be like. She spent a lot of her time in the nursery with her son, and preferred to nurse him, instead of using a wet nurse. She often told him how much she loved him, words she’d never heard from her own father.

  How is it I find it easy to tell my child I love him but I can’t tell Ram?

  When Ram pined for Normandie, Mabelle chided him, “Remember, Ram, our son was born in this foreign land. It’s his land.”

  “Robert is a Norman first and foremost. When I’m gone, it’s the Norman lands that will pass to him. They’re the important holdings and titles, the ones passed down in our family before. The Montbryce legacy.”

  Idly patting her belly, he smiled. “Our second son will inherit our English lands and titles. Those lands I’ve won for myself. They are Ellesmere lands.”

  In September of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Three, Ram and Mabelle welcomed their second son, Baudoin, another almost identical copy of his father. Again, everything went normally, and the midwife and Myfanwy saw her through it.

  As time progressed, and the boys grew, Ram didn’t get to spend a great deal of time with his young sons, but when he was with them, he treated them much as his own father had treated him—with a firm hand but with love. He often remonstrated with Mabelle she doted on them too much. Robert and Baudoin were excited to see him return from his travels. Whenever he was away fighting the barbaric Welsh, Mabelle was consumed with worry for him.

  ***

  The following year, Edgar the Aetheling returned to Scotland. Shortly after his arrival he received an offer from Philip, the King of France, who was also at odds with King William, of a castle and lands near the borders of Normandie, from which he could launch raids on his enemy's homeland.

  Malcolm tried to dissuade him, but he embarked with his followers for France. Once more he became the victim of a shipwreck, this time on the English coast. Many of his men were hunted down by the Normans, but he managed to escape overland with the remainder to Scotland. Following this disaster, he was persuaded by Malcolm to make peace with William and return to England as his subject, abandoning any ambition of regaining his ancestral throne of England.

  The despondency among the Saxon refugees in Scotland was palpable. They congregated more and more at Court, drawn by their patroness, Margaret, Queen of Scotland. Many among the Scottish nobility resented what they considered to be the Anglicization of their Celtic court, but they were afraid to voice their criticisms, given Margaret’s well known piety, and her husband’s besottedness.

  Ascha felt more and more isolated after the deaths of her kinsmen. Caedmon was her only solace. She instilled in her son, and encouraged among the Saxons at court, a sense of great pride that he was the son of Sir Caedmon Woolgar, housecarl to the dead King Harold, who’d fallen with his king at Hastings. It was the stuff of legend that the king’s housecarls had fought to the death, rather than surrender.

  At seven years of age, Caedmon Brice Woolgar was a strong, affectionate boy, a mirror image of his real father. Ascha was unconcerned about the resemblance, finding comfort in it. She was confident the two would never meet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  One of the powers granted to the Marcher Lords was the right to raise militias, and Ram often recruited and trained new soldiers. While the ranks might consist of local people, the commanders of these men were always Normans. Giselle frequently dropped hints to the Earl her sons would make fine commanders if they were only given a chance to come from Normandie.

  Mabelle didn’t pay attention to any of the details regarding these men, busy as she was with her home and children. One winter’s day, just after the turn of the year of our Lord One Thousand and Seventy-Five, she was sewing with ladies of the household, chatting about the impressive tapestry they’d heard Bishop Eude had commissioned to commemorate the Conquest. It was being made in England by the Anglo-Saxon seamsters at Eude’s demesne at Canterbury in Kent but would later be sent to Bayeux in Normandie. Robert and Baudoin were playing with their nursemaids near Mabelle’s feet.

  “I hear rumours it will be over two hundred feet in length,” Giselle commented. “The Anglo-Saxons are famous for their needlework.”

  “I heard it will show the historic events of the battle, as well as those leading up to the invasion,” added Mabelle. “If it’s being embroidered, then it’s not a tapestry is it? That would mean it would have to be woven.”

  One of the nursemaids asked, “My lady, why is it being sent to Bayeux?”

  “Bishop Eude is building a cathedral there.”

  While they were talking, her husband entered with some of his commanders. She glanced over to watch him. Even among this group of physically fit elite fighting men he stood out. She fought the urge to rush over and knead his powerful iron-hard thighs. The soft black hair hidden beneath the fine linen of his shirt called to her, and she smiled at how shocked they would be if she tore the shirt off his muscled body, right there, right then—

  Heat rose in her as he shifted his stance, and her eyes went unbidden to his sex, just there, hidden under the long doublet, nestled, ready to spring to life if he looked
up and saw her hungry gaze. She averted her eyes, aware her face had flushed, that she’d been almost drooling.

  Pray no one noticed!

  The men’s voices drifted into her returning awareness. They were discussing a new Norman noble, who was to arrive soon to take over command of one of the divisions.

  “Seems he asked to be assigned to Ellesmere, milord,” Gervais, Ram’s Second in Command remarked.

  “Interesting. I wonder why?” Ram replied.

  He glanced over to see if Giselle was within hearing. He obviously didn’t want to get into that hornet’s nest again.

  “I expect he knows where the power is, milord.” The other men chuckled their agreement with this assessment. “He probably knows you have sons. Your heirs will inherit your lands, and they won’t revert to the King. That kind of stability leads to opportunity.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Giroux. I’ve good reports on him. He arrived recently from Normandie. Good family. Capable soldier.”

  “Sounds familiar—but I can’t place it.”

  Mabelle’s heart thudded and she suddenly felt cold. Had she heard correctly? Could this be the son of the man her father had blinded and mutilated years ago? It wasn’t a common name, and why had he asked specifically to come to Ellesmere? She’d heard nothing of the Giroux family since coming to England but they were partly responsible for the years of wandering exile she’d endured. She resolved to speak to Ram about it.

  Later that night he reassured her. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  He’d remembered where he’d heard the name before but was in the process of seductively undressing his wife. “After your brother’s death, I heard no rumour of any ongoing threat from that family.”

  “But why would he ask to come here?”

  “News of our power and reputation has spread throughout Normandie. He’s probably an ambitious young man seeking opportunity for advancement with a powerful Marcher Lord. Don’t worry,” he cajoled, playfully rolling her hardening nipple between his finger and thumb, grinning at her, “I can assign him where you’ll never have to meet him.”

  She lost coherent thought, as the passion that always took hold of her the moment Ram touched her, did just that.

  ***

  The moon had waxed and waned since Giroux’s arrival. Ram mounted Fortis, intending to ride out to inspect the Saturday market. He’d always been an accomplished horseman, and was puzzled as to why his favourite mount seemed frenzied. It was a spirited horse, but that was the sort of steed he liked to ride. He’d been relieved the stallion had adapted well to his new life in England, after the rigours of Hastings.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to calm the snorting animal, which reared so suddenly Ram was thrown heavily to the hard ground. Giroux rushed from nearby to calm the distraught horse. Gervais ran to his earl’s side, pulling him away from the flailing hooves. Ram was having difficulty rising, only managing it with the help of his Second. He knew immediately he’d at least cracked a rib or two.

  “What the devil is wrong with that horse?” he shouted, as pain snaked through his chest, bending him double.

  “I’ll look him over, milord,” Giroux answered. “He seems calmer now. I’ll see to him.”

  “Gervais, help me to my chamber. I fear my wife will need to assist me. I believe I’ve broken something.”

  Mabelle had heard the commotion and hurried to his side. Gervais, almost carrying his Earl, told her what had happened. She began issuing commands to the servants as she helped her husband climb the steps. They assisted Ram to their chamber, where he sat on the edge of the bed. He was shaking.

  Giselle and Myfanwy, the Welsh healer, arrived with armfuls of linen cloths. Myfanwy prepared a potion for pain, and Ram downed it in one, knowing firsthand how effective her potions were. The women tore the cloth into strips and bound him, after Myfanwy’s gentle examination confirmed the likelihood of broken ribs. “Yr Arglwydd Montbryce,” Myfanwy said with authority, “You must rest for at least a fortnight. The only time you may get out of bed is when I come to bathe you in knitbone. Only thus will the bones start to heal.”

  He started to protest, but his argument became less forceful when the draught she’d given him took effect.

  “Thank goodness you’ve at least stopped shaking, Ram,” Mabelle murmured with relief, helping Myfanwy tuck warm linens around him.

  He wasn’t an easy patient, protesting loudly at the indignity of being forced, every second day, to soak in a tub of hot water, darkened by the green of the knitbone. It necessitated the removal of his bindings, and their reapplication afterwards. He was such a big man, the women couldn’t manage getting him into the tub, and his squire, Vaillon, had to enlist the aid of another male servant.

  “That cursed Welsh woman will kill me.”

  Mabelle stood with her hands on her hips. “Ram, much as I adore your magnificent body, it’s not a pleasant task for me to dry you after you’ve been soaking in the wretched comfrey. But it will help take down the swelling.”

  Ram squirmed, aware he’d imposed the duty on her. “I’m sorry. I don’t want any of the servants doing it. It’s humiliating.”

  Mabelle seemed to be enjoying baiting him, as she carried on, “And you’re ruining every pair of braies you have, with your insistence on keeping them on in the tub. The laundress is less than pleased.”

  “I don’t feel very magnificent,” he whined, secretly wishing he had the energy to display his magnificence for her. “And I’ll not expose myself to all and sundry.”

  An active, virile man, he couldn’t abide spending time in bed, particularly since he wasn’t able to make love to his wife. It was torture. Her nearness in the bed at night, or when she came to sit with him during the day, never failed to arouse him.

  “It’s difficult for you too. We’ve never been able to temper our passion for one another.”

  After close to a fortnight in bed, he was stroking her breasts and bemoaning his plight yet again when she rose and knelt between his legs. “Lay still, Earl of Ellesmere.”

  She feathered light kisses up the inside of one thigh, and down the other. Bending his legs slightly, she tenderly stroked the backs of his knees. His erection had sprung to life before she’d started the kisses, and now she grasped the base of his manhood, and leaning forward, ran her tongue up the length of him.

  “Mabelle,” he gasped, trying to keep as still as he could, flattening his palms against the bed to brace himself.

  She moved her mouth rhythmically on his rigid manhood, as she cupped his sack with one hand and echoed the movement of her mouth with the other on his shaft. He groaned with every tug. Reaching for her breasts, he rasped, “I can’t wait. Straddle me.”

  Mabelle lowered her slick womanhood onto his throbbing phallus, the sensation of deep penetration sending a wave of well-being coursing through him, from his toes to the top of his head.

  “You’re already wet, my lovely. But—I can’t thrust. You’ll have to do the work.”

  He grasped her hips. “Oui, that’s it. I can feel you gripping me. Ah!—Dieu—Ride me hard, ma belle.”

  Her nostrils flared, her strong thighs braced tightly against his hips as she rode, back arched, hands threaded into her golden hair, breasts thrust forward proudly. She looked like a wild woman. Glancing to where their bodies were joined seemed to inflame her more—the golden and black curls intertwined. She stared into his eyes and he stared back. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. They crested and peaked together, never turning their gaze as fulfillment clouded their vision.

  Mabelle was careful not to collapse on top of him. Rising from the bed, she went to the ewer and poured water on a linen cloth. “Now I’ll cleanse you in the loving way you’ve always cleansed me.”

  Loving? Of course I love her but could I bear the pain if she doesn’t love me in return?

  She dried him with her hair, and kissed his sated manhood.

  “Cursed
horse,” he moaned, touching his bound ribs gingerly.

  “Didn’t you enjoy that, my darling?” she teased.

  “Oui, of course, but these ribs are not healing fast enough. I can’t wait to be riding again.”

  “And I can’t wait to see that broad chest of yours again.”

  They laughed together. He remained on his back, and she curled into him as sleep claimed them.

  ***

  Ram was a healthy, robust and active man, and it didn’t take him long to heal. He was happy to play with his sons when they were brought from the nursery.

  “I want to get back on a horse, but if Fortis is still acting wildly, I’ll have to find another mount,” he told Mabelle sadly. “Much as I appreciate a steed with spirit, I also need a horse I can rely on when I ride against the Welsh. It will be hard to replace Fortis.”

  He was pleasantly surprised, however, when the horse was demonstrably glad to see him, and he mounted easily, only a twinge pricking his abdomen. He rode out to the town market with his men-at-arms.

  “So, you’ve recovered from whatever upset you that day, mon vieux?” he said lovingly, patting the horse’s neck, still puzzled by its uncharacteristic behaviour.

  On his return, he mentioned it to Gervais, who told Ram that some days after the accident, he’d discovered a deep wound on the horse’s flank, under the saddle, as if something sharp had been pressed into its flesh.

  “See. There. I didn’t think it important at the time, but it was odd.”

  “Perhaps there was something stuck to the underside of the saddle?”

  “Not that I could see, but I wasn’t the first to handle Fortis after the accident.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The castle, and its environs grew as buildings and defenses were completed. With prosperity and expansion came more people, and with them the need for more healing skills. Myfanwy did what she could, aided by Mabelle and Giselle, but the old woman complained she needed more help. She asked Ram if she could take two girls from nearby villages under her wing, and pass on her skills to them.