Conquering Passion

by Anna Markland

  “I’m not getting any younger,” she cackled. “If something happens to me, you’ll need others to tend the wounds of your men, and nurse the illnesses of your people.”

  Ram looked at her skin, wrinkled like old parchment, and knew she was right. He gave permission for two young women, Morwenna and Rhonwen, to come to the castle to be the healer’s apprentices.

  They’d been there a fortnight when Ram remarked to Mabelle, “The two apprentices are complete opposites. Where Morwenna is fair of hair and face, Rhonwen is dark, moody, and, I must confess, hard to read.” They were dining in the Hall, and could see both girls sitting several benches away, though not together.

  “Oui, Morwenna braids her long hair, whereas Rhonwen’s hangs around her shoulders like a black cape. Morwenna smiles a lot, and Rhonwen doesn’t.”

  Ram took hold of Mabelle’s hand. “Don’t be angry, but I’ve noticed Morwenna has beautiful blue eyes with long blonde lashes, and Rhonwen’s are huge round pools of grey.”

  Mabelle made a pretence of rebuking him, wagging her finger and shaking her head, but then she smiled. “Have you noticed how Rhonwen’s high cheek bones accentuate her look of constant surprise?”

  Ram chuckled. “Oui, and Rhonwen is small and delicate, whereas Morwenna—well, a man notices these things. You know—breasts—and hips that promise fertility.”

  Now I might be in trouble.

  He supposed Mabelle had decided not to rise to the bait when she only smiled again and remarked, “Both girls are quick studies, and Myfanwy is delighted with her pupils. I confess I like Morwenna, but I find Rhonwen uncommunicative and shy. However, I can’t fault the way the girl works when faced with a wound to cleanse, or a fever to tend. It sometimes seems people heal faster when Rhonwen takes care of them. She has a special healing touch.”

  Ram replied, “I’m pleased the castle will have three expert healers.”

  “Oui and the four of us are spending many hours replenishing the stock of herbs, and mixing fresh potions and salves.”

  “Speaking of salves, I’m leaving for the border on the morrow. Would you like to come and soothe my ache?”

  ***

  One warm spring day, not long after her conversation with Ram, Mabelle and Myfanwy were gathering herbs together in the garden, when the Welshwoman made an observation that they must be sure to replenish certain ones. Mabelle recognised them as herbs used in child birthing. She blushed, wondering if Myfanwy had guessed what she suspected. It would be useless to deny it to this perceptive Welshwoman, whom she’d grown to love and trust.

  “I believe you may be right, Myfanwy. I’m with child again, I think. I haven’t had my courses for two months, and I’m nauseous every morning.”

  “Does Arglwydd Montbryce know?”

  “Not yet, but I know he’ll be pleased. I plan to tell him on the morrow, when he returns from Wales.”

  “I can prepare something for the nausea, my lady, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Myfanwy.”

  That evening, as she sat in her lonely chamber, looking forward to Ram’s return the next day, Mabelle heard a soft tap at the door. Morwenna entered, the usual bright smile upon her face, carrying a wooden tray with a goblet. “My lady, Myfanwy has sent this special draught for nausea but says it must be taken the night before, to be truly effective.”

  Mabelle was upset the Welsh healer had evidently shared news of her condition with the apprentice but decided not to make an issue of it. She thanked the girl, dismissed her and took a sip of the potion. It had a bitter taste, and she could only take a few sips at a time. She might prefer the nausea to this gall. She called to Giselle in the next chamber to assist her to undress.

  “You’re no doubt looking forward to milord’s return on the morrow,” enthused the little Norman woman, who’d become Mabelle’s only real confidante.

  “Oui, I am, Giselle. I love him dearly, and I miss him when he’s away.”

  Giselle helped her lady lift the dress over her head. “So, you’ve come to see that what you feel for him is love?”

  “Oui, for many years I didn’t think I could experience love. As you know, I spent my childhood growing up with a father who didn’t know the meaning of the word. And Ram and I—well—you’re aware of the difficulties we had at first that I thought I would never forgive him for. But he’s the person I was meant to marry. He’s the other half of me.”

  Giselle knelt to remove Mabelle’s shoes. “Have you told him you love him?”

  “Non, I’ll probably never tell him. You know Ram. He’s a man of action, a soldier. Such men don’t allow themselves to fall in love. He’s a good husband and father, and he cares for me, and our passion is sometimes—overwhelming, but for a man that’s natural lust, and I wouldn’t want to tell him I love him, and receive no words of love in return.”

  Giselle smiled and patted Mabelle’s belly. “Milady, you’re mistaken. When he looks at you I see love in his eyes. When you tell him about the bébé on the morrow, why not tell him you love him?”

  Now Mabelle smiled—even Giselle had guessed she was with child.

  Suddenly the room swirled around her. The smile left her face as intense pain sliced through her abdomen, bending her double in agony—no time to reach the chamber pot before vomiting. She gripped her shoulders and started to shake and sweat.

  “Giselle, aide-moi. Something is wrong.”

  Giselle ran to the door of the chamber, calling loudly for help. “Au secours! Au secours!”

  Soon both Morwenna and Rhonwen had been roused from the chamber they shared, and brought to assist. No one could find Myfanwy. They managed to get Mabelle off the floor, where she writhed in agony, into the bed. She lay doubled over, crying out as the debilitating pain wracked her slender body, and the vertigo held her in its thrall.

  Giselle noticed the empty goblet on the tray. She seized it and inhaled, desperate to ascertain what her lady had drunk. She smelled myrrh and coriander. Morwenna told Giselle that Myfanwy had sent the potion. Rhonwen said nothing but kept bathing her lady’s forehead with cold cloths.

  “That Welsh witch has poisoned my lady!” Giselle cried. “Oh, my lady.”

  “No, it can’t be true,” Rhonwen burst out.

  The three anxious women stayed with Mabelle through the long dark hours of her awful torment, replacing the spent candles as they burned down, and changing the soiled linens and Mabelle’s shift each time she vomited.

  “There’s blood.” It was the first time Rhonwen had spoken since her outburst concerning Myfanwy. She’d started to change the linens, and suddenly saw the pool between Mabelle’s legs. “My Countess was with child?” she cried.

  “God save us!” cried Giselle. “The witch has given her an abortifacient. She’s losing the baby. Help her.”

  Rhonwen and Morwenna worked feverishly to try to stop the bleeding.

  “I’ll need to give her a draught, to help the pain and stop the bleeding. The child is lost,” Rhonwen acknowledged sadly to Giselle.

  The fearful maid’s face was streaked with tears. “You may give it to her, but you’ll drink of the potion yourself first.”

  Rhonwen prepared the potion and drank of it, without hesitation.

  As the dawn broke, Mabelle settled into a deep sleep. Reassured by Rhonwen that the bleeding had stopped, Giselle went in search of Gervais. She told him to root out the Welsh healer from her hiding place, and throw her in the dungeon.

  ***

  When Ram arrived home several hours later, Bonhomme awaited him, and he could tell by the expression on the man’s face something was wrong. “My children?” he asked, as fear gripped him.

  “Non, monseigneur. Ta femme, la Comtesse—”

  Ram felt his legs buckle beneath him, and his heart raced. How could he face life without Mabelle? “Where is she? Is she—?”

  “She’s in your chamber, and the healers are with her. We’re seeking the witch Myfanwy. She poisoned your wife.”

  He
didn’t later recall how he got to the chamber but was gasping for breath when he arrived. What he saw made his heart clench with anger. He would kill whoever had done this. The bile rose in his throat as he looked at the ravages the poison had wrought on the fair face of his beautiful wife. She looked like she’d been dragged to hell.

  He didn’t think he’d uttered that thought aloud, and yet a moment later, as if sensing his presence in the room, Mabelle opened her eyes and murmured in a barely audible voice, “Ram, I was at the gates of hell. I wanted to spit in the Devil’s face, but my throat was too dry.”

  He rushed to the ewer, then helped her sip the life sustaining liquid Rhonwen had brought from the nearby holy well at Halliwell. The poison and the vomiting had left her throat raw. She could hardly speak. “Ram. Our baby. I’ve lost our baby.”

  “Baby?” he murmured, his fury intensifying. He clutched his wife’s cold hands and brought them to his lips. The only sounds were Mabelle’s sobs and his own heavy breathing as he struggled to control his emotions. He became dimly aware the two Welsh girls, looking exhausted, were standing in the far corner of the room. What struck him as odd, in that fleeting moment, was that tears were streaming down Rhonwen’s face, but Morwenna stood stonily expressionless.

  Giselle entered the room, and Ram ushered them out into the hallway. “I thank you for taking care of her, for saving her life. What happened here? Where is Myfanwy, and why are my men hunting her?”

  Giselle recounted the story, and Morwenna confirmed it was Myfanwy who’d given her the draught and instructed her to take it to Mabelle. Wiping away tears with her sleeve, Rhonwen told Ram that Mabelle had miscarried a child, and she cautioned her mistress was still very ill.

  “She might yet die?” His heart and his head were pounding.

  Rhonwen averted her eyes. “The abortifacient she ingested was powerful, and it will take a long time for the poison to leave her body. We’ll need to watch her carefully. Also, Arglwydd Montbryce—I hope you’ll forgive me if I speak of these things, but sometimes when a woman loses a child—she loses the will to live, and my lady is already very weak.”

  Ram grimaced.

  This could kill her.

  “Get some sleep now. I’ll watch her.”

  He returned to stand by his sleeping wife’s bedside, dropped to his knees, rested his elbows on the bed and prayed, weeping for her terrible pain and his own.

  ***

  The bloated body of Myfanwy Dda floated to the surface of a nearby lake two days later, her throat cut. Ram had left his wife’s side only to visit with their children in the nursery, and to bring them to see their mother as she slowly grew stronger. When Gervais brought him the news of the discovery, he left Mabelle with Morwenna and went to discuss this latest development.

  “Her confederate evidently didn’t trust her to keep quiet,” Gervais suggested.

  “But why would she try to poison my wife, and kill our child? Though she was Welsh, she’s lived in England peaceably for years. She had a position of honour and respect here as our healer. She’s saved the lives of hundreds of our people. I had complete trust in her.”

  He returned to his wife’s bedside and told her the sad news about Myfanwy. She shook her head. “I can’t believe Myfanwy would do this. What would she gain? Who would she conspire with, and why would they kill her?”

  “Did she know you were with child?”

  “Oui, she’d guessed as much and we talked of it in the herb garden. She told me she would prepare something for me to take, so I didn’t question when Morwenna brought me the potion.”

  “I do recall now that Morwenna brought it to you.”

  He turned to ask Morwenna where Myfanwy had been when she gave her the potion, but the girl had slipped out of the room, without his noticing.

  Strange.

  It was stranger still that Morwenna’s hair was unbraided. Perhaps after a long and difficult two days, she’d not had time to braid it this morning. With his Norman sense of order, he had a vague feeling something wasn’t right, and it didn’t sit well with him.

  “Morwenna doesn’t seem herself,” he remarked.

  “You’re right. I hardly recognised her with her hair down. And the poor child has not smiled much today. I’m getting the feeling that of the two of them, it’s Rhonwen who’ll prove in time to be the better healer, and I wouldn’t have thought that before. While I lay in pain, I could feel Rhonwen’s compassion as she tended to my needs. It was mystical. I didn’t feel that from Morwenna. In fact, I felt malevolence emanating from her.”

  “I’ll tell Gervais to have someone keep an eye on her.”

  It soon became apparent Morwenna had fled the castle. The alarm was raised and the town thoroughly searched, but she couldn’t be found.

  “Perhaps she was murdered too, for her part in the plot,” Ram suggested.

  “Non, my husband. I think Myfanwy was a victim of this crime. I sense it was Morwenna who poisoned me. What do we know of her? Until recently she still lived in Wales. Myfanwy knew only of her family. Perhaps we were blinded by the beautiful smile and braided golden hair.”

  “Ah,” her husband replied with a wink, squeezing her leg. “It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened to me.”

  As a familiar ache assailed her loins, Mabelle silently thanked God the poison hadn’t destroyed her ability to feel passion for this handsome man she loved so dearly.

  ***

  Myfanwy’s death was declared to be murder by persons unknown, and she was buried with dignity and solemnity in hallowed ground. Mabelle grieved for the Welsh healer, and knew in her heart the woman hadn’t been involved in the plot to kill her. Whoever was responsible remained at large, probably with Morwenna. Rhonwen seemed inconsolable over the death of the crotchety old woman. She was probably the closest thing to a mother the girl had ever had.

  Attending the funeral exhausted Mabelle, and Rhonwen helped her back to bed. “I learned much from her, my lady,” Rhonwen’s voice was unsteady. “Who’ll teach me now? Who’ll protect me?”

  It was an odd choice of words, but Mabelle replied, “You have great inner abilities to heal people Rhonwen, a natural touch, which will stand you in good stead, and never fear, we’ll seek others to help us learn more. I’ll protect you.”

  ***

  Ram suspected the Welsh barbarian, Rhodri, was involved in the plots against his family. He and his well trained trackers tried many times to follow his trail into the mountains but always returned empty handed. He couldn’t understand these stubborn Welsh folk, with their strange Celtic beliefs, and their incomprehensible language. He grudgingly admitted they had difficult geography to deal with, and admired the way they used the impossible terrain to their advantage.

  However, he had a personal desire to see Rhodri captured after the humiliating incident at Ruyton, and was determined to put a stop to his interference in the future prosperity of England, and William’s plans to expand his control into Wales.

  He assumed Rhodri had spies in his own castle. Perhaps Morwenna had been one? He didn’t like to believe any of the educated Normans under his command would ally themselves with a barbaric Welshman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  In the late spring, Ram and Mabelle visited Normandie. He’d made the journey many times in the nine years since the invasion. The defence of the castle merited constant attention given the volatile political climate in Normandie. Ram’s brothers were not far away in their own castles, but Ram had trained an elite garrison under the command of Capitaine Laurent Deschamps, a man with whom he had fought, a man he trusted. He was never disappointed in Laurent’s preparations and felt Montbryce was secure.

  This time Ram and Mabelle took their sons with them. Ram felt it was important they visit the castle at Saint Germain. They were the sons of a Norman Comte, and it was imperative they know their ancestral home. Despite the unseasonably fine weather, it took them a sennight to reach the coast, but the crossing was calm, and even Ram m
anaged not to become seasick. Robert and Baudoin enjoyed the voyage and were excited to be going to Normandie.

  As their cavalcade rode into the bailey of the home where he’d been born, Ram was hard pressed to hold back his emotion. This edifice held many memories and so much history. “How can I impart that to our children?” he shared with Mabelle. “I hope this will be the first of many visits for them. One day Robert will be the Comte here. Perhaps in time the Welsh problem will be solved, our King will no longer need my services in England, and we’ll return to Normandie for good.”

  “Oui, Ram, I would like that too. While you’re now wealthy and powerful, it has been costly.”

  Ram looked at her wistfully. “The way we Normans constantly insist on alienating people with our brutality, the less likely it seems there will ever be peace.”

  He took his children to show them the fields and orchards around the castle. Fernand Bonhomme, looking old and stooped, found a malleable horse so he could ride with Baudoin on his lap, Robert sitting behind him, holding on to his Papa, squealing with delight. Everyone was happy to see their liege lord returned, and commented on the handsomeness of his children. It was the first time they’d ever spent time as a family, with no external pressures on them.

  “This is a place of intense memories for me,” Mabelle confided to her husband. “I recall the dark handsome knight, conjured from the lake, who became my husband, a man who has brought me the most exquisite pleasures.” The smile left her face. “But there are more difficult memories of my father and yours. I grieved alone for him here. And you can tell Bonhomme has never recovered fully from Vangeline’s death.”

  He noticed she made no mention of the wedding day incident, so he decided not to either.

  “Oui, his son, Honoré, does most of the work now.”

  They took the boys to the crypt, explaining the tombs and their grandparents. It was evident the shivering lads were uncomfortable, as they stared up at the long shadows cast by the flickering candles on the vaulted ceiling.

  Mabelle picked bluebells with the children while Ram watched, and they exchanged smiles at the memory. The blue flowers held no interest for the boys, who preferred to run through the fields, laughing and shouting. They took them swimming in their special lake, and Ram knew his eyes betrayed his need as they looked at each other close by the place he’d first found her. The bittersweet memory washed over him like a rushing river. Trying to break the tension, Ram remarked casually to his sons, “Maman once threw Papa’s sword into this lake.”