A Man of Value

by Anna Markland

  He expected her to pull away from him, but she didn’t. Silence filled the room.

  “Tell me about it, my husband,” she whispered finally.

  He looked into her eyes. He saw tears welling, but didn’t see condemnation. He sighed, drew her over to a chair and bade her sit. He sat in the other chair, and leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. He told her the story, pausing now and again to run his hands through his greying hair.

  She was silent for a long time, and then asked, “Is she still in Scotland?”

  “I suppose. As far as I know she’s never returned to the manor in Ruyton, only because I’ve administered the estate, through a seneschal who keeps in touch with her, and have provided men-at-arms as security. I did that partly through a sense of wanting to protect a woman alone, and also to safeguard a vulnerable property in the Marches from the Welsh. But I made it known in no uncertain terms I wasn’t to be bothered with any of it.”

  “You’ve never seen her since that day?”

  “No. I’ve never wanted to see her. I felt no love for her, only compassion. I didn’t force her, Mabelle, you must believe that. But she didn’t force me either.”

  She rose from her chair, took his hands in hers and bade him rise. “Ram, I’ve sensed something happened at Ruyton, long ago that you regretted. I thought it had something to do with a woman, but I love you with all my heart. If you love someone, you can forgive them. I forgave you long ago for this.”

  He put his arms around her waist. “Mabelle,” he whispered hoarsely, “What did I do to deserve you? You’re my life, and I worship you. Everything I am, everything I have is yours. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”

  She encircled his waist, and drew his body to hers. “Ram, you’re a wonderful man. A proud Norman, a credit to your country, a brave hero, strong, educated, loving, a good father, husband, and brother, a handsome and passionate lover. A true Montbryce. But no one is perfect. You’d endured the horror of Hastings. I was immersed in my own grief and confusion and failed to provide you with the love you needed, to help you deal with the toll that battle took on you. We weren’t married then.”

  He shook his head. “But my heart told me you were my destiny, Mabelle. I knew it was a betrayal.”

  He drew her closer and they clung to each other. She held him tightly as the long pent up regrets shook him. It was a lament for the friends and comrades lost amid horrendous carnage almost thirty years before, for the anguish of their separation during her kidnapping, for his dead Conqueror, for his homesickness for Normandie, and for his betrayal of the woman he loved. But his tears were also ones of relief that she’d forgiven him.

  “You must think me a coward,” he sniffled, though he had to admit the experience had been a cleansing one.

  Mabelle put her palm against his cheek. “Ram, a man who can’t cry, who can’t feel things deeply, isn’t a man. One thing you could never be accused of is cowardice. Let’s go to our chamber. It’s getting late.”

  “Hmm. Did you say handsome and passionate lover a while ago? Is that what I am?” he said, smiling at her, feeling suddenly like a young stallion.

  “Oh, oui—and more,” she smiled back. “I should have added insatiable.”

  “Non, Mabelle, that would mean I can’t be satisfied, and you more than satisfy my needs. Come, let me show you.”

  Two hours later, as he lay with his wife’s warm body nestled against him, he remembered that their son Robert would soon be visiting from Normandie for the Yuletide celebrations.

  “When is Robert arriving?” he asked lazily.

  “Two days hence.”

  “It will be good to see him, but I worry about the amount of time he spends away from Normandie. His life is there. He’ll be the Comte. He needs to get established.”

  “He knows that. He’s happy to live in Normandie. He only comes because he misses us and his brother and sister, especially at this time of year.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Robert de Montbryce, eldest son of the Earl and Countess of Ellesmere, strode into the Great Hall of his father’s impressive castle in England with the confidence that was his birthright. His parents were immensely proud of him. As a boy he’d endured being kidnapped and threatened with beheading by a maniac bent on misguided revenge, yet he’d dealt with it all with courage and resilience.

  He’d grown into a handsome man, the mirror image of his father. He was lithe, fit and strong, and had the same piercing blue eyes as his sire. He was a trained warrior who’d accompanied the Earl in skirmishes against the Welsh and had acquitted himself well. Aware of his inheritance, he’d assumed the mantle of the castle in Normandie and the lands there without qualm. He’d stepped smoothly into the role of comte-in-waiting. He loved Normandie.

  “Robert. Mon fils.” Mabelle cried, flinging her arms open wide when she saw her son enter.

  “Maman,” he replied with a smile, hugging her.

  “Robert. Good to see you my boy,” said his father, coming forward to embrace him.

  “Papa, it’s good to see you too.”

  “Robert!” Hylda Rhonwen flung her arms around his neck.

  “Ah! Rhoni, I’m content to linger in the warm embrace of my loving sister. You’re growing up, little Welshwoman.” Family tradition demanded they all tease Hylda Rhonwen about being born in Wales.

  They talked for a long while, enjoying the easy warmth that only members of a loving family can share with each other. Ram felt good. He’d loved his own parents, and they’d loved him. He’d made a point after the kidnapping of making sure his children were aware he cared deeply about them and he was confident they loved him. They trusted each other, aware that a great family could only prosper if its members shared love and trust. Family treachery had divided many noble houses, as evidenced by Mabelle’s own family, the Valtesses.

  Robert brought them up to date on the news from Normandie, and Ram shared his opinions of King William Rufus.

  “William hasn’t been successful expanding our influence into Wales,” he confided. “Though he’s an effective soldier, he’s a ruthless ruler who’s disliked by those he governs. He’s hateful to all his people, roundly denounced for presiding over what’s held to be a dissolute court and questions have been raised about his sexual preferences.”

  He noticed his wife’s look of disapproval. “Sorry Mabelle, my dear. He’s a flamboyant character with a belligerent temperament who hasn’t married, and hasn’t sired any bastards, let alone legitimate heirs.”

  If Ram voiced these thoughts in some circles, he could be charged with treason, but he was safe here at home with his wife and children. “I’m the proudest and most stalwart Norman there is, but we have to embrace the culture of the English to a certain degree, if we want to rule here successfully and for the long term. After all these years, people still rebel against us. Have we learned nothing? William Rufus scorns the English and their culture. He’s cruel, grasping, and arrogant and lacks tact and discretion. As you know, he’s frequently in conflict with his elder brother Curthose, Duke of the Normans.”

  “But the worst situation is with the Church. With the death of Lanfranc, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the King lost his father’s advisor and confidant. After Lanfranc's death, he delayed appointing a new archbishop for many years, appropriating ecclesiastical revenues in the interim.”

  A servant entered with refreshments. Everyone stopped talking. Robert indicated to the girl that he would pour the wine for his parents. She nodded and left. Robert handed his father a goblet of wine.

  “Merci, mon fils.”

  “Go on, Papa,” Robert said, pouring for everyone else. “Only sit. Your pacing is making us all nervous.”

  Ram laughed, and sank down into his favourite chair, rubbing his knees. “Gladly. In a panic when he was seriously ill, Rufus nominated Anselm of Bec as Archbishop, but this has led to animosity between Church and King. Anselm can’t condone the King’s actions. Rufus feuds with his bishops and confiscates chu
rch revenues for his own extravagances.”

  Ram glanced at Mabelle, and sensed her irritation. “I know we talk of naught else, but—”

  Mabelle interrupted him. “It’s important you discuss these matters. Don’t worry.”

  Ram nodded his gratitude and continued. They discussed the situation in Scotland and agreed it was confusing and volatile. Robert had heard much of this before, but was tremendously interested in his father’s opinions. What happened in England affected his position in Normandie. The politics of both countries had become inextricably intertwined.

  “Alors,” the younger Montbryce commented, “William Rufus has succeeded in consolidating his power during these early years of his reign, but has done so largely by bad faith and brutality rather than by military skill and diplomacy. But the underlying problem remains that we have a ruler of the Normans, Duke Robert Curthose, and a ruler of the English, King William Rufus, which results in us Normans trying to serve two masters.”

  “Exactement! You have it exactly, Robert. That’s what some of us have attempted to achieve, one ruler for both. Otherwise there’s too much instability. Our Conqueror’s half brother, Bishop Eude, has often pointed out that if we serve Duke Robert Curthose of Normandie, we’ll offend our King William Rufus and he may deprive us of our revenues in England. However, if we serve King William Rufus, Duke Robert Curthose may confiscate our lands in Normandie.”

  Ram shook his head, exasperated with the political games that seemed to swirl around them constantly. Sometimes he wished he could withdraw to Saint Germain and enjoy his apple orchards.

  “I see your Maman has finished her wine, and she and Rhoni are getting bored with all this talk of politics.”

  He suspected Mabelle wanted to steer the conversation in other directions, especially to when Robert intended to marry and produce heirs. “Baudoin will be here soon to join us for the meal,” he informed Robert. “He’s meeting with some of the tenant farmers.”

  Mabelle suggested they take their places for the meal the servants were about to serve. “Trésor has prepared your favourite foods, Robert, let’s go enjoy them. You know how she is if we don’t appear for meals when she has them ready. She rules here, not your father.”

  They all laughed, knowing she spoke the truth about the cook who’d been trained in Normandie to come and serve them in England many years ago. Trésor had boxed Robert’s ears on more than one occasion.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Do you want me to accompany you to Ellesmere?” Agneta asked on the eve of Caedmon’s departure.

  “No, I prefer you stay here. It will be difficult to be apart, but I don’t know what to expect there. I’ve been told the Earl is a fair man, but you might be safer here. I’ve sent Tybaut ahead to tell the Earl of my intention to visit.”

  “I’ll miss you in my bed,” she murmured coyly.

  He hoped she would add and in my heart, but it was a forlorn wish. He took her by the hand and led her to their chamber.

  There was a hint of melancholy about their lovemaking. It would be the first separation since their marriage. He slowly kissed her mouth and tasted her lips, then feathered kisses down her neck. He spiraled his tongue around the whole globe of her breast in teasing circles until he reached her nipple, repeating the ritual with the other breast.

  Agneta writhed in pleasurable anticipation. His tongue found her navel and he ran the tip of it round and round then pressed hard below her navel. Her moans of delight were music to his ears.

  He sucked each of her toes in turn and then licked the soles of her feet. She stretched, arched her back and opened her legs in invitation. He kissed her thighs, beginning behind her knees and ending at the place where he knew she ached for him. He lifted her hips. His tongue pressed between her legs and licked. She rose to the challenge and pushed against him. He lapped her, savouring her essence. He sensed her rising to a crescendo and she screamed his name in surrender. The notion passed through his mind that he could postpone yet again the journey to Ellesmere.

  When her breathing had steadied, she motioned for him to lie on his back, climbed on top of him, cradled his engorged manhood between her breasts, and rocked.

  “Feels good,” he crooned.

  Then she engulfed him with her warm mouth and moved on him.

  “I can’t wait any longer,” he rasped after a minute or two.

  “Come inside me,” she whispered.

  He turned her over onto her back and entered her warm wet centre, pounding into her, his loins on fire. His ecstasy reached its pinnacle and he filled her.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms. He wondered how he could survive a three or four day separation.

  As Agneta drifted off to sleep, she acknowledged that she would miss Caedmon terribly, and not only in her bed. She had to reluctantly admit yet again that she was in love with him. It confused her that she could trust Caedmon with her body and share the most intimate of touches and caresses with him. He wasn’t a trustworthy person. He’d been partially responsible for the deaths of her family, but her heart knew he wasn’t an evil man. In fact, he was gentle and kind, strong and brave. He deeply regretted his part in the Bolton raid. She recalled how he’d looked that day as she peered, with terrified eyes, through the chink in the planking of the barn. His heart had not been in the deed. She resolved to tell him of her forgiveness, when he returned from Ellesmere.

  ~~~

  Tybaut had already left to inform the Earl of Caedmon’s imminent arrival. When the steward arrived at Ellesmere, he discovered the Earl was away and wouldn’t be returning until later that night. He wouldn’t be available until the morrow—the day Caedmon planned to meet with him. Tybaut couldn’t wait until the next day. He’d made arrangements to meet with someone in Shrewsbury that same night, on his way back to Ruyton, to procure more ribbons for Lady Agneta.

  He sought out his friend and fellow steward, Martin Bonhomme and found him in the kitchens. “My friend, I need your help to convey a message to the Earl,” he said as he swilled down the ale Bonhomme offered him.

  Bonhomme raised his own tankard to his lips. “I’ll see to it. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “I’ve been assigned to the manor at Shelfhoc for some time now.”

  “Oui, lucky dog. Off the beaten track, not much work,” teased his easygoing friend, whose father Mathieu had in fact procured the post for Tybaut.

  Tybaut took another big gulp, smacked his lips and carried on, “It’s true there hasn’t been much to do there, but I’ve done my best to carry out the Earl’s wishes. Anyway, out of nowhere, maybe a year ago, comes the thane, Sir Caedmon Woolgar and his lady wife, to take up residence.”

  “Huh. A year ago?” was all his friend could apparently say.

  “I suppose I should have come tell the Earl, but my strict instructions have been not to bother him with anything to do with Shelfhoc and all is in order.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Anyway, be that as it may, he’s a pleasant fellow, albeit a Saxon. But he wants to see the Earl on the morrow. Come to pledge his service, no doubt, and give his thanks. I was supposed to tell the Earl about his coming.”

  Bonhomme slapped his companion on the back. “Leave it with me, Tybaut. I’m to meet with the Earl early on the morrow. He plans to return late tonight and I’ll tell him about his visitor. I doubt the matter will take much time?”

  “Probably not,” Tybaut replied, swigging down the last of the dark ale and swiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Obliged to you, my friend. I’ll be off now. Want to make it back to Shrewsbury before dark. There’s something bothers me about this Sir Caedmon. He reminds me of someone, but who?”

  “Never met him, therefore I’m no help with your quandary. Sir Caedmon Woolgar. These strange Saxon names! I’ll remember it. Good journey, mon ami.”

  As Tybaut left the kitchens he bumped into Robert de Montbryce. “Beg your pardon, milord Robert. It’s good to see you back from Normandie. I trust all
is well at the castle there?” he asked, bowing deferentially.

  “Steward—Tybaut, isn’t it? Things are relatively good in Normandie,” Robert replied, with a grin, walking away quickly. “I’m looking for Trésor and I can’t be deterred from my errand. She usually has something good to eat tucked away for me.”

  In that instant Tybaut found the answer to the question that had nagged at him since he’d met Sir Caedmon. “I have it,” he murmured gleefully. “Sir Caedmon could be milord Robert’s twin brother—except Sir Caedmon is older. They look much alike.”

  ~~~

  When Bonhomme met with his Earl the following morning they discussed matters concerning Ellesmere that needed immediate attention. He suddenly remembered the message his friend had asked him to pass on.

  “Oh, milord Earl, it slipped my mind. Tybaut, the steward appointed to Shelfhoc Manor, was here yesterday with a message. He wanted to inform you that the thane, Sir Caedmon Woolgar, and his lady wife, have returned to the manor.”

  The Earl’s reaction wasn’t what the steward expected. He jumped out of his chair. “Sir Caedmon Woolgar? He’s dead. He died at Hastings. It can’t be him. His lady wife? Did he mention her name? Was it Lady Ascha?”

  Bonhomme searched his memory. “No, milord, he didn’t mention the lady’s name. Anyway, Tybaut said Sir Caedmon is coming here to see you today—to thank you—for the manor and all.”

  The Earl scratched his head. “Today? He’s coming here today?”

  Bonhomme wasn’t sure why the Earl was visibly upset by this news.

  “Is the Lady of Shelfhoc expected?”

  “Not that Tybaut mentioned, milord.”

  The Earl seemed relieved at that news, but started pacing the room, his brow furrowed.

  “Will there be anything further?” the steward asked.

  “Non, Bonhomme, merci. I need to speak with my Countess. Do you know where she is?”

  “I believe she’s in the kitchen with Trésor, milord.”

  Ram ran to the kitchens to find Mabelle, leaving a perplexed Bonhomme behind. He asked her hurriedly to meet him in their chamber as soon as possible. Trésor bit back a grin as the flustered countess left the kitchen. “Our Earl can’t keep his hands off his wife,” she chuckled to the scullery wench. “They’ve always been that way. Rushing off to their chamber this early in the day. What I wouldn’t do for a lusty man like that.”